However We Know the Landscape of Love
by Progenitus
Summary: Larka was what the cruel sort would call a wheat-toast sort of bird, so wasn't everybody in for a surprise when she embarked on a fairy tale to save Sirius's soul. [SB/OC with a splash of JP/LE, spanning from Marauder era to the end]
1. Prologue: Pub Scene

Disclaimed.

* * *

**However We Know the Landscape of Love**

—an unauthorized biographical account

_Again and again, however we know the landscape of love  
__and the little churchyard there, with its sorrowing names,  
__and the frighteningly silent abyss into which the others  
_**_fall_**_  
_

* * *

**Prologue: Pub Scene**

Many things have been said about Sirius Black, and very few about Larka Roxburgh. In fact, we couldn't even say we knew her name—only vaguely, in the way that we said we recognized old schoolmates' names even if we didn't; the way names sounded familiar because we felt like they should be familiar. She just sort of appeared one day, arriving at 12 Grimmauld Place and stepping inside with an anxious look to her apple cheeks. Now, weren't we all so surprised that Sirius—_Sirius_, the bloke that half the birds at school used to pine over, even if by then he was a gaunt shadow of his old self, a sort of electric restlessness buzzing just underneath his skin—Sirius gathered her and fit her against him, a mellow peace to his ragged—ragged _something_, we weren't sure what exactly to call it.

Of course, we were very intrigued, but very quickly he died.

_Then_ came the shocker.

And cor, what a story it was.

(Grab a pint—bit long, this telling, because to start at the beginning was the only way to start anything, wasn't it?)

* * *

**Chapter 0**

**In Medias Res**

The woman was a figure out of a John William Waterhouse* piece, a lone profile against the impending storm, about to be carried away by the next gust of wind—with some romantic liberties taken.

In truth, she was perhaps too firmly figured to be blown away by any wind, and would have made a _terrible_ painting. Her posture was the correct heroine posture—alone on the side of the street, hair lashing and hand at her chest, feebly clutching a scarf. But Waterhouse would have never stooped to paint somebody quite so exceptionally _uninspiring_. She had traditionally long hair, in a deep brown that bordered black in the dimming light, caught in a state between waves and straight. Her eyes were of the same color, neither large and watery, nor long and curved. Her nose did not particularly want character but offered none as well.

Even her anxiousness seemed to be the commonplace English anxiety, as she wrung her hands and waited for something to happen.

A man passed her without a second glance (or nary a first glance)—wasn't everybody waiting for something or other? The apocalypse? Their house being bulldozed for a highway bypass? A better television program?

This woman, though, was really waiting for the screech of childish laughter that soon echoed, as two children ran after one another from just around the corner: a little girl, very pretty, with wild hair and large underwater eyes, and a little boy, who was far less pretty, even at the tender age where youth often looked like beauty. The children ran towards the perfectly ordinary Waterhouse woman, who upended her slight frown into a relieved smile at the sight of her niece and nephew, and said, in a perfectly ordinary Guildford** accent, "Penelope, Pan, stop running around like little monkeys and come inside."

The children looked at her with appropriately childish disappointment as they were led through a yard lined with bristly borage flowers to a modest house washed in a soft yellow.

Just as the woman was turning the keys to the door, the little, pretty girl shouted excitedly, "Look, Pan! Look at the black wolfie!"

The woman looked up, startled, and caught the outline of something very large and very black. She stood as if struck by the lightning that just flashed, but soon recovered herself.

"I baked some brownies," she diverted both the attention away from the large black outline by enticing the children, not quite like an evil witch from a gingerbread house, but rather somewhat matronly.

At once the children discarded the thought of the fantastical wolf, and were drawn inside.

The living room was warm and cozy, perhaps less spacious than one would have anticipated, but let nobody say that to the hostess. The said hostess closed the front door, and sealed the house from the rest of the world. She snuggled into an armchair, picked up the book lying on the carpeted floor, and tried to breathe at an even pace and not let the hearth fire make her eyes water.

Soon the warm brownies were not enough to sustain the children, and a high-pitched voice broke the silence. "Auntie Larka, tell us a story!"

"Say please," the woman—Auntie Larka—replied reflexively.

"Please!" Penelope turned her bright eyes on her, pleading.

Larka rubbed her temple, although the gesture did not alleviate the headache she foresaw coming. She could start _Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border_ some other time, she supposed—it was mostly of old ballads involving faerie abductions anyhow, and Merlin knew she got an awful grade on that paper on faeries—a completely unacceptable Acceptable.

Spurred by her renewed aversion towards faeries, she agreed gingerly: "All right, but promise not to interrupt."

"Promise!" the two shouted in unison, tumbling down from the chairs to the floor near her feet, looking up at her expectantly.

"Fourteen years ago, Hogwarts***—" Larka began.

"What's Hogswart_?"_ Penelope was shocked and her eyes grew even larger, her mind unable to grasp the concept of _fourteen years_—or even the concept of a year, really.

Someday, Larka thought, Penelope would break hearts and eat men like air—although Larka was really past the days of wishing her eyes would shine like that in the corner. "Hogwarts was my school—"

"Your school is that old?"

"Yes, and I was a student there fourteen years ago." Hogwarts, like some things, seemed to not have a beginning or an end. "I said no interruptions!"

Penelope closed her mouth docilely and did not say that she hadn't thought Auntie Larka was so _old_.

"Let me begin again then. Fourteen years ago, there was a girl of but mere fifteen—"

It was Pan that broke her off this time, "That's you, ain't it?"

Larka patted his head, strangely eager to recount her story to children too young to take it seriously, "Yes, smart little man," she encouraged although his line was not known to produce smart males.

She trailed off, her eyes gazing at the mountains and forests that suddenly appeared just outside the window.

"It was the most exciting year of her schoolings—and believe me children, she never left school, not really. It had been a very good year…"

(Thus the story began.)

* * *

* Larka Janet Roxburgh had never once in her life fancied herself one of the heroines in a John William Waterhouse painting. In fact, she had no idea who he was, so was in no position to concoct daydreams based on his various oil-on-canvases of mythical and literary female figures.

** One could take the bird out of Guildford, as the saying went. Not that Guildford had a distinct accent even—most of her accent came from influence of her father, whose speech was influenced by his own father, who came from the Scottish borders. It was a perplexing accent—not quite obvious enough for others to perceive it, but enough so that one might furrow one's brow at _something_ in the speech being off.

*** This was not strictly following the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy (see ISWS 5311-5330 and Non-Magical Protection Act Chapter X, specifically, 14C-2 filing requirements 20 days before disclosure). But if one was going to cast caution to the winds and tell a wild tale to one's niece and nephew, then one certainly was not going to be following the rules, ISWS _or_ NMPA. It was only fitting, since the tale itself bore this spirit as well, and was shockingly full of rule-breaking and otherwise borderline illegal activities.

* * *

Author's Note: Story cover is the cover for the single 'Let Me Call You Sweetheart' from the glorious 20s. Poem is by the amazing, amazing Rilke.


	2. We March Tomorrow

**Part One – The Idle Years**

**Chapter 1**

**We March Tomorrow**

The Larka of fifteen years old was habitually more anxious than the average Fifth Year.

She did not have an anxiety disorder, nor did she suffer from anxiety attacks—no, it was just that she was anxious about things that were puzzling to be anxious about. For example, she was currently passing the other tables in the Gryffindor Common Room, and in her anxiety, she hugged her books closer than advised and thought about the angle at which she should hold her head at. She didn't feel any eyes on her, judging, evaluating, appraising, but she still couldn't help but tremble a little in her hands as she tried to maintain a stiff poise.

It was important to be _cool_, you know, at fifteen. (It was also important at other ages, but at fifteen it was of _utmost_ importance.)

Once she reached her destination, the small table in the southeast corner, she dropped all the thick volumes with a gushing relief. She did not feel anxious anymore, because she was next to her best friend Novia Brooks, and she knew with absolute confidence that all the judging and evaluating and appraising would be directed towards Novia now.

Larka secretly thought that Novia Brooks was the prettiest of the all the girls in their year, with sharp outlines and fairy eyes, pale beyond all belief, a light dusting of freckles scattered over the nose. Her blonde hair brushed her shoulders tenderly with each slight movement. She moved like a willow branch in the wind, and blew past everything with grace and purpose.

This was not Larka romanticizing her friend; it was most strictly true—Novia was exceedingly pretty, especially now with her long slim legs crossed, and looking at Larka through her lavender-framed glasses suspiciously. Her face glowed orange with the fire like a porcelain doll, and her slender fingers drummed the table to some unheard rhythm, as if she was playing a minuet.

"What are you up to now?" Novia stared at her sharply.

And there was the reason that despite her beauty, Novia was not listed number one of the datable* bachelorettes of Gryffindor: Novia had anything but a soft, willowy personality. She was impersonal enough for aloofness, but not enough to warrant an ice-queen title; her smile was pretty enough but she frequently frowned instead; her voice was liquid yet she used it only in commanding tones. Here was the reason why the pretty Novia had yet to date anybody—or rather, nobody from the school had enough nerves to ask her, risking her notorious temper, only bested by Potter's infamous moods.

Novia's beauty wasn't something to be plucked easily, Larka thought proudly.

Then Larka looked at her fuzzy reflection in the large brass mantelpiece next to where they were sitting. Her own features were dainty and fair, but when put together, her face looked like an old classmate's—familiar and unmemorable. Unmemorable—story of her life. Academically, she was in that above-average blind spot where the teacher generally did not need to worry about her, but also did not favor her. Socially, she treated everybody with a civility that made her an affable classmate, but not a particularly well liked one. Grammatically, she was always correct, so nobody even made fun of her, not even for being correct all the time.

Novia was expecting a reply, Larka realized. "Oh the librarian told me the books I requested arrived, so I went to pick them up."

"Only your books are so weird that they have to be _requested_. What is it this time?"

"_The Waves_—I have no idea what's going on, but the language is just so _pretty_! It's by this witch who killed herself by walking into a river with a sinking charm because she was too depressed with the rural Muggle life. She married a Muggle, you know," Larka sighed as she caressed the book cover of ocean waves.

Novia snorted with character. As she was readying some retort about the morbidity, the painting of the Fat Lady that served as the common room door swung open. The open gateway revealed a group of Sixth Year boys, who proceeded to stroll in as if they were kings.

Larka supposed that, to some extent, they _were_ Kings.

James Potter, a remarkable whirlwind of a Chaser in the Gryffindor Quidditch team, since he often stole the show from the Seeker, although more matches were definitely won by the Seeker position. He plummeted onto the sofa in front of the fireplace—the central furniture always remained unanimously empty for the four to claim, at all hours.

With his left hand, James dragged down Sirius Black, belligerent Beater of the team, to shine beside him. Sirius was less of a Quidditch phenomenon than just a phenomenon. He was making legends on his first train ride to Hogwarts, even before he got Sorted into Gryffindor, a sorting that _definitely_ made the legends. Of course, there was his easy charm and real nonchalance towards the feminine, but that was only a small part of his identity. Presently, Sirius barked his laugh and socked James in the arm as he tumbled down gracefully. A small pillow fight ensued, the two flinging cushions wildly, as the other two kings—Remus and Peter—stood by and watched merrily.

(It was rather like watching Wizard's Chess, Larka thought as she saw one of the pillows break from James's too-enthusiastic thump, where all the pawns were feathers.)

Remus Lupin was the intellectual, and provided the group with the enviable privilege of the Prefects' Bathroom. Oh Larka hadn't meant to make it sound like he was only there for his benefits—he definitely brought benefits, on the border of abusing Prefect duties—but it was just that he always seemed _older_. By quite a bit, actually, although they had all frolicked for the same number of years under the same sun—which was to say, one more year than Larka and definitely _not_ the same sun, because she was sure they had their own sun.

(Perhaps there was an element of time as well? Bullet chess was always the most fun to watch, and she imagined that bullet pillow fights would be the same.)

Peter Pettigrew was a quiet, mousy kind of boy—pudgy for his height, which hadn't changed since his Second Year, with a natural, nervous twitching in his eyes. He was the perfect piece to complete the four, extremely calming sort of boy, with his double chin and misty eyes. Larka always felt like she could talk to him the most out of the group. Not that, you know, she _did_ talk to him.

James won the match, clobbering Sirius and pushing him off the couch with a triumphant shout followed by a stifled groan from Sirius. James stood up on the couch, adding an addition two feet to his already tall stature, and bowed towards a group of girls.

Towards Lily Evans.

Sirius rolled up from the ground, liquid in his movements and fondness in his eyes. Larka secretly suspected that he let James win so that James might impress Lily. It wouldn't work, of course, but she thought it was a nice gesture on Sirius's part.

Also nice was his flourishing bow towards a non-specific direction. Despite losing the battle and lacking the height advantage, Sirius had a naturalness to these unnecessary gestures that made the boys laugh and the girls giggle.

Novia was among the giggling mass, and that caught Larka's attention. "Novia?" Larka tentatively said, mostly playful and only somewhat apprehensive. "Did I hear you _giggle_?"

Novia looked away, looking like she could be blushing, but snapped back at Larka just in time, "No, of course not, Larka you're imagining things again!"

"Without a doubt, My Queen," Larka bowed her head, "if but I were that gullible! A fool lives far more luxuriously than a wise woman, and yet I am fated to misfortune!" Dropping her grandiose tone, she scooted her chair closer to Novia and whispered, "Another one will join the Black fan club, eh?"

Novia blinked rapidly, "There's a fan club**?"

Larka wasn't sure, she didn't follow social clubs that much, but that wasn't important. "If not, you could start one," she suggested.

"Oh stop it," Novia sighed, a little soft puff of air that all teenage girls sighed at some point. "Sirius would never think of me as a date—why, in fact, he wouldn't think of me at all!"

Larka raised her head loftily, "Someday, he will turn, and see your hair of sunshine and eyes of skies, and fall irrevocably in love with you—but only after you've already gotten over him! Woe be him!"

Novia snorted again, and carried the conversation back towards Larka's books.

For Larka, however, the rest of the evening was lost as she looked fugitively at Sirius at every opportune moment.

Sirius Black was gesturing wildly at some tall tale that he was telling, eyes burning with an intensity that frightened Larka a little. She couldn't hear what he was saying, but words poured out of his mouth like a string of pearls, round and luminous, brightening the room.

Larka felt more and more comfortable with the idea of making a formal introduction to Sirius. Every casual and subliminal gesture that Sirius made translated into a signal of silent love in Larka's eyes. Never mind that Sirius Black of all people was not one for silence—but look! Just look! The way his deep-set eyes flickered towards their general direction was obviously a sonnet for Novia's slender fingers brushing past her hair. That stretched out smile that surveyed the whole room was clearly to cover up the fondness that hid in his left dimple. The way his eyebrows arched and loosely flurried at the end showed outwards his internal feeling of being lost. The brushed back waves that came tumbling from behind his ear were trying to fly towards Novia like a flock of dark magpies.

Larka had never looked at a boy as carefully as she did Sirius Black, and she could proudly say that she had him all figured out. Behind that facade of a debonair playboy was a shyness and melancholy that tortured his entire childhood. Only the Gryffindor valor saved his soul—surely that was why the Sorting Hat had put a Black—a _Black_!—in their house.

She worked herself to flushed cheeks as she dreamed of all the grand romances that Novia would have. She might one day try for a similar adventure, but she must progress through life one step at a time. After seeing a real life love story—starring Novia and Sirius—she would know how to go about having a romance.

Larka would march up to Sirius Black when the common room emptied—march straight up to him, and say—say something to the effect of: this girl was born out of rosewater and northern glaciers, and you would not be able to find a more fitting girlfriend.

She would march to him, and speak her mind—well, tomorrow.

* * *

* Technically called 'The Gryffindor Blokes' Wet Dream List', compiled by Anonymous (in actuality, part of a four-chapter list composed by a Judith Garr in Ravenclaw), but Larka J. Roxburgh could not bring herself to even _think_ of wet dreams.

** There was indeed a Sirius A. Black Appreciation Club, abbreviated SBAC and pronounced '_speck'_—after, you know, that sinfully luscious leg cut of bacon. Members were strictly by invite only, with an entrance fee of five sickles that came with a lifetime subscription to the quarterly _Seriously_ _Sirius _magazine. The printing was costly, since they insisted that only the best parchments could even hope to capture a fraction of the gloss of Sirius's hair—and main financial support came from auctioning articles that Sirius had signed, wore, or sweated in (occasionally all three, fetching a very pretty sum). The reaches of this club was far wider than one might suspect, especially given his later occupation.

* * *

Author's Note:

Every story needs  
a serious Sirius joke  
that you are probably  
tired of

Forgive me  
it is done  
and so easily


	3. The Prince I Dreamed For You

**Chapter 2**

**The Prince I Dreamed For You**

The 'tomorrow' conveniently turned into a 'day after tomorrow', and again into 'next week'. Soon enough Larka stopped giving herself excuses, and simply let the inertia settle in, guilty and easy.

She knew fully that in order for her to witness and learn from the earthshattering love story, she must make it happen first—but, but it was still an intimidating thought, walking up and talking to the Kings of the World, despite her strong sense of purpose. Friday—Friday was a well-timed day for this. Sirius could conveniently ask Novia out on a date as soon as their tête-à-tête was over, and also it allowed Larka at least the whole of Saturday to waste in daydreams and princess stories.

The problem then, was how to get Sirius alone to talk to him and not arouse suspicion from his friends: a task made more difficult by the fact that James was terribly nosy, Remus horribly clever, Peter remarkably sensible, and Sirius dreadfully lacking the desire to remain private.

So Thursday night found Larka turning about on her bed, sitting and crouching and generally fretting about. All her plans led to obstacles instead of answers, and the longer she thought, the more aware of her discomfort she became. Her back ached, her neck was strained, her eyes became watery—all in all, it was a sign from higher powers that she must sleep on it first.

Who was she to deny such divine intervention?

* * *

Daylight poured down onto Larka's closed eyes so abruptly that she actually woke up, mind foggy and memory temporarily lost. She found herself staring into the familiar cold blue of her friend's eyes.

"Novia? Why are you up so early?" Larka mumbled, covering her eyes from the light with a hand. Usually Larka was the sort of person that cheerily woke other up at ungodly hours, avoiding any article thrown at her with good humor, but she had exhausted herself so last night doing absolutely nothing that Novia of all people rose before her.

"_Early_? Any later and we'll be late for McGonagall's Transfiguration*!" Novia exclaimed, standing there with her hands on her hips and looking down at Larka like a mother hen.

"What?!" Larka sat up rapidly and threw the blanket away with desperate urgency. Her eyes widened and she scrambled to find a clock that wasn't there.

Then she noticed Novia's victorious smile and relaxed, dropping back onto her bed again, and gripping her pillow firmly, as if afraid that Novia would pull it away from her. She had good reason to fear, since Novia did exactly that.

"I was kidding, but if you're any later, you'll miss breakfast!"

Breakfast was generally considered the most important meal of the day. Larka never got through breakfast without losing herself to wondering if cows could be charmed into herding themselves, or if an ever-flowing wine spell was really just a consistent version of a summoning spell, or various other thought-provoking matters. She still deemed it very important though, so she made the effort to sit up for it. As she fumbled through the heap of miscellaneous things on her bed, Novia urged her to hurry.

"Just a second!" Her hand felt the smooth wood of her wand and jumped to the door. "I could swear I put it right by my pillow last night! I was so tired to the bones that I'm surprised that I hadn't slipped into a coma!"

"Speaking of which, what were you doing last night? Your eyes haven't been this red in ages!"

"Oh, thought experiments," Larka replied airily.

They finally made their way down into the dining hall, which was empty but for the late risers and slow eaters.

"What were you thinking of?"

"If a cat in a box is dead before you open the box," that used to be something her father said whenever he didn't want to answer her, but at the stricken look on Novia's face, Larka quickly told the truth: "And that of Sirius."

"Rule of thumb: check your surroundings before the morning dose of gossip," a voice sounded behind their backs, startling Larka into squeaking. Larka was prone to being startled, mostly by sudden noises, and often found herself being startled by photographs when they moved suddenly. She briefly wondered if the Muggles ever got used to it as she whipped around.

Novia however, was a different story. She tried her best to look nonchalant and to just notice the owner of the voice, but was largely unsuccessful on account of the sudden redness on her pale ivory skin.

Larka cleared her throat, and searched for the sudden inspiration that would solve all her problems. "Er," she finally made out earnestly, if not intelligently.

"Greetings to you as well, milady," Sirius grinned, and strutted back to his group.

Good sire, you have found the princess Novia that you seek, Larka thought as she watched Sirius retreat too far for her to reply. The Americans called it escalator wit, but Larka didn't trust escalators; the French staircase wit was more familiar to her though, as often she found her wittiness when rising up to her dormitory. In this case, Larka thought wryly, it was more like standing-still-until-the-shadow-of-greatness-passe d wit.

She was vaguely comforted by Remus' sympathetic smile, although she wasn't sure what Remus was sympathetic towards. She quickly accepted that Remus mostly smiled at everybody in that calming, sympathetic way that was also slightly amused, but not maliciously so.

Well, there went the one shot she had.

_Wrong_.

* * *

Larka and Novia had put the last quill away for Transfiguration, last of their morning lessons. The idea of lunch in the dining hall was immediate and tantalizing when their teacher, Professor McGonagall, called out to Larka like a weaver of fate.

"Miss Roxburgh, if I could take a moment of your time please."

Larka's heart flash froze in her chest but she dutifully turned back to the classroom. She waved a concerned Novia away and braved the stern-looking professor, her hat more lopsided than usual from fuming at the students. (Each year gone by, the students got worse and worse, McGonagall observed, like all teachers across ages did.)

McGonagall, to her credit, gave what could have been described as an almost friendly smile, and beckoned Larka to close the door. Then McGonagall took out a parchment from the pile and showed it to her.

Oh dear, Larka thought, her penmanship for that paper was particularly bad.

McGonagall was more concerned about the glaring Poor at the top than the penmanship, though. "Miss Roxburgh, it seems like that you are not quite following the lessons as you did last year. Now, there is a certain, uh, _lag_ in performance compared to last year, and this lag is quite worrisome."

Larka hung her head in shame.

"I would like to tutor you outside of lectures, but I am sure you are aware that the recess of the teachers and the students do not overlap frequently**. Therefore I suggest that you ask an older student to...ah, solidify the foundation of your learning. May I recommend Remus Lupin of the Sixth year? He is well versed in this subject, and he would be more than willing to help."

There was a quiver in Mcgonagall's right eye as she said 'Remus Lupin' and 'Transfiguration' in a single breath, but Larka was too shaken up from embarrassment to notice.

"I will talk to him," Larka promised quietly, secretly dreading having to ask for help. The subtext of seeking help meant that she had failed at achieving understanding on her own—and how could she do that, shoving her own inadequacies in the face of the most glamorous people of the school, the wizardry community—the entire world?

"Off you go then, busy yourself with youthful things, and please do not forget." McGonagall waved a hand and returned to grading the papers.

Larka walked out of her office with humbled shame and greeted Novia, waiting a door down, leaning against the wall like a monument of slenderness. Larka did not want to explain her upsetting situation, but explain she did to her friend.

"McGonagall wants me to ask Remus Lupin if he would tutor me…"

Novia gasped.

"I know, isn't it awful," Larka groaned.

"Awful?" Novia smacked her arm. "You know how many girls would swoon at this chance? You now have a compelling excuse to talk to—be near—Remus, and so James and—Sirius, as well!"

Well, she never thought of it that way. But still, her first impression would be a helpless little girl who was failing school and life, and that did not sit well with Larka. She wished Remus was the one failing, and the professor had advised _him_ to come to _her_***.

Down in the dining hall, Larka looked around for Remus and spotted him immediately sitting at the most chaotic section of the table, with a textbook out that he seemed to be studying intently. His levels of concentration and skills at blocking out unnecessary noises were remarkable. No wonder the professor had recommended him.

Taking a deep breath, Larka strode over to them, taking wide steps and trying her best to look confident and relaxed.

They did not notice her approach as Sirius was gesturing wildly, outlining the plans for a prank. Larka lurked behind James and listened to Sirius, fascinated. There was a charming laziness about Sirius that made his every word sound careless and somber. Never before had she heard anyone speak with such intensity and fluidity—he must have pondered and labored over each precise word in each faultless sentence for many long hours! Yet, he flung these perfections with alarming carelessness! Oh, to think that mere words could house so much raw power!

"—At which point, the floors will open up, the ceiling will burst with a thousand colors like the flickering chariot of Merlin, and we will make our exit in grandeur and graceful silence! Oh, hi there!" Sirius waved and smiled, with an intimacy that suggested they have been friends for years.

It made Larka uncomfortable. "Uh, hi, I'm Larka, um, I'm looking for—" she began, and James ended it for her.

"James the Magnificent? At your service. Sirius the Madman? The devil over there, who, for some reason, is beloved by the fairer kind." He ruffled Sirius's hair lightheartedly, and looked at her expectantly, almost as if this happened every day.

Larka ran her hand through her hair for a second, a nervous gesture, and said, "No, actually, I'm looking for Remus Lupin. I-is he here?"

Of course he was here. She knew who he was—he was looking at her in placid surprise—she just didn't want them to know that she had been paying much attention to them. Then again, perhaps that was too much of a pose, because everybody paid attention to them? The intricate art of showing disinterest was not something Larka was very well versed in.

"I am he. Is there something I can do for you?" Remus spoke softly.

She went through her hair again, and gazed at his calm gray eyes, "Well, Professor McGonagall suggested that I should ask you to tutor me..." She trailed off, hoping that he would pick up for her with some sort of response.

There was none.

So she went on, "But if it's troublesome, then please forget it."

She was about to rapidly turn around to walk off, ready to burrow underground and live in darkness for the rest of her life, when Sirius spoke, "Oh Remus, how could you pass up this extraordinary chance? To privately guide such a distressingly beautiful specimen? You have all the luck of the house today, my good man!"

Larka did not know if she should have been offended at being referred to as a _specimen_, but could not help but secretly feel a little pleased.

Remus finally spoke, "It's not a problem, I would be happy to help. We can use the library after dinner tomorrow. Is that okay?"

Larka smiled in relief, and responded cheerfully, "Fine by me!" and dashed away with impressive speed.

"Well played, Mister Lupin, well played." Sirius draped an arm around Remus' shoulder, and smirked teasingly, "I see you're finally fleshing out your marauding role!"

Remus tucked away his book and started forking the piece of beef on his plate neatly and answered tranquilly, "I have no idea what you're talking about."

James also laid an arm across his shoulder, creating a strange three-way crossroad. "Playing dumb, young master Lupin! It is high time that you put to use those good looks of yours and prey upon some girl. It's been six years!—Six! Years****!"

"Unlike you two, I don't find pleasure in breaking other people's hearts." Remus took his friends' arms and returned them to their sides. "Besides, tutoring is a perfectly ordinary social activity. Just because you two neither need it nor would give it, does not mean that it is not a normal part of the student life."

"Don't go all didactic on us," Sirius whined, "I swear I can see the future where all your students look up at Professor Lupin and despair: that is your destiny!"

"Better start practicing now. Besides," he raised a light eyebrow, "at least I'm making progress towards my purpose in life. You two, on the other hand…" He wiped his mouth with a napkin and stood up. "Well, I'm going."

Sirius traded a look with James, and whispered to him, "Good lord, James, Remus is never wrong!"

"About what? His future as a scary teacher?"

"No, you moron! In our endeavors for love and sex, we have not tried the bird's friend, that pretty blonde."

"The pretty and _moody_ blonde who will whack you like_ this_," James whacked Sirius fondly on the head, "if you break her heart." Then James smiled tenderly, "Besides, I don't need to _look_ for a target—Evans!"

Sirius rolled his eyes and yelled, "Wait up Remus! I'm coming!"

* * *

* Minerva McGonagall was notorious for her strict policy concerning tardiness. Once a student—a Gryffindor no less!—have stumbled in ten minutes late, his robe on backwards from haste, and was condemned to detention for a week. Nobody knew what he underwent for he wouldn't say, but his spirit was thoroughly crushed and he arrived for class a good fifteen minutes early each time. The rumors were that he was forced to play chess with McGonagall.

** This was not strictly true. Professors occasionally tutored their favorites, as faculty and students all had evenings off. Larka was not a favorite, however.

*** If only she was better at Potions!

**** Again, not strictly true. Remus had gone on dates, and briefly entertained a girlfriend back in Fourth Year, but that was under the undue pressure of his friends. Remus hadn't gone further than snogging the bird, so James didn't count that. He also briefly fancied the prettiest girl in Hufflepuff in Fifth Year, but she was gorgeous and a Seventh Year and had just broken things off with Lloyd and of course Sirius swooped in to play wingman. The girl ended up asking Sirius out, so all of them preferred to not remember this episode.


	4. Where Courage Grow

**Chapter 3**

**Where Courage Grow**

There was a violent storm the evening that same day, at the hour of bedtime supper. Large drops of water viciously smacked the earth with, creating a shifting of rain. Larka could not help but see an imposing foreshadowing in the sky, painted a violent dark gray.

The Fat Lady swung open to show a short girl in black robes smeared with mud and drenched in water, dripping down to the carpet as she crossed the room to the stairs to the girls' dormitory. It was the quiet, timid girl who transferred here from some school that no one remembered.* She was to finish her education at Hogwarts, but it was hard for her, for all the other Fifth years have already grouped into friends and foes for years, leaving her somewhat alone.

Which was why nobody rose to help in a flurry of friendly worry.

The hem of her robe was caked with mud, and as she walked through the Common Room, slowly and slightly limping, she dragged a trail of mud across. She realized how the room was oddly silent, and how she was disturbing the snug, restful air. Not that the room hasn't seen worse days—when it rained during Quidditch matches, the entire house seemed to be a giant mud pool—but she was not a Quidditch captain, and so her dirt was not made of glory and sweat and cheering; it was just dirt.

The Four Kings were in their usual seats in front of the fireplace, and in the heavy silence, their comments pierced through like Robin Hood's arrows.

(James: So pigs aren't the only ones to bathe in mud.

Peter: Seems more like a crayfish—mum got one from the mud river last summer, fed it all the dead sparrows that turn up on our windowsill.

James: _Eww._

Sirius: Say, that bird's got mud done to an art doesn't she? Wish we had her around the house to distract our house elf.

Peter: Crayfish are actually fairly useful. They eat all the dead bits.

James: _Dead_ you say? Last chance to see! Dying, extinct species!

Remus: Eating dead birds and dying themselves are different, James. In fact I should say crayfish are far from bordering extinction.

Sirius: Should we charge other houses tickets?

James: Nonsense my boy, you see Evans charging people to bathe in her glamour?

Sirius: Not glamour we're charging for here, mate!)

They were not malignantly laughing at the girl, it was just that their jokes came at her expense, and they didn't seem to realize how much their words meant. Larka found their exchange extremely fascinating, because she did not know about mud bathing or crayfish before, but she was also sorely reminded of how thick people could be.

The poor thing was blushing so furiously now that her cheeks would have fried eggs.

Larka bit her lip. It was times like this when she wished she would be superwoman and stand and yell for everybody to shut their eyes, and whisk the girl away in a nimbus cloud of seven hued glowing. (Would the smoke be perhaps too hard to get out of the curtains? Oh dear, she hoped the elves wouldn't dislike her for it.) But the words of the Sorting Hat, scorched into her mind, sounded again.

"Hmm, a difficult case," the wrinkly old hat judged with his cackled drawl. Little Larka had beamed at the assessment, and figured that perhaps that meant she combined all the best traits of the four houses.

The Hat chuckled at her nativity, "Very difficult indeed...not cunning enough for Slytherin..."

Well she never cared too much for Slytherin anyway, they bore such a sigma. Why she remembered all the horror stories that her older cousin told her when their families got together for Christmas.**

It went on, "Lacks that fiery Ravenclaw ambition for achieving much..."

She was never very ambitious, she would admit, but she also thought it rather unfair that the Hat had decided her entire future, her entire, unknown life ahead of her, when she was but a girl of eleven.

"Your attention span is not enough for the patient Hufflepuff, and perhaps you would flee before facing toil..."

That was the point when Larka got a little worried. She had always been a fan of Hufflepuff—perhaps not exactly exciting, but a more grounded, loyal crowd was never seen. The little boy with nice brown eyes in Diagon Alley was in Hufflepuff, she blushed to think.

"And I don't see the usual gusto that defines a Gryffindor."

Why, she had never met a more spiteful old geezer!

The Hat remained unoffended as it whispered, "No matters, the best house to cure you of all that is—", and he roared out, "GRYFFINDOR!"

Her ears still rung from the force that it used. She suspected he yelled particularly hard for her. And as if set out to prove it wrong, Larka walked to the mud girl—what was her name again?

In any case, Larka couldn't tell if her face was damp with rain or tears, and so held out her hand and offered the warmest and most reassuring smile she could muster in front of so many eyes. "Need help?"

The girl nodded curtly and looked at her gratefully. She had a hearty face, round and full. Her eyebrows were so faint and scattered that it took a bit of concentration to notice them, and Larka couldn't help but think she was the most harmless creature that she had ever laid eyes on. (Certainly not a crayfish—Larak didn't know what crayfish were, but they sounded awful.) As the girl smiled at Larka, her head turned into an apple, round and flushed, red tendrils near her nose, and cheeks squeezed upwards. She and grabbed Larka's outreaching hand, pulling herself up, and allowed to be guided to the comfort of solitude by Larka and Novia.

The room fell quiet once again as Remus succeeded in soothing James and Sirius. A gentle, warm glow engulfed all the young faces once again, and the soft hush of homework and gossip washed away the mud.

The mud girl—Kelso was her name, as Larka discovered later—naturally tagged along with the two of them ever after. She followed their steps with a fervent, panicking pace, and did not allow both of them out of her sight.

Larka didn't exactly mind her—Kelso was a polite and bashful sort of girl, who shrunk back to silence whenever she thought she spoke wrongly or insulted someone. Of course, this could be a conditioned characteristic bred out of her friendlessness at this school. Novia was much more enthusiastic however. She was determined on setting a first-rate example of growing a backbone. She spoke louder, laughed longer, made more eye contact, and in general pushed herself more into everybody's view—to show Kelso how it was done, of course.

The effect on Kelso was debatable, but it did at least draw attention from the right people, for as Novia was ostentatiously describing her first flight on a broomstick when she was a wee little girlie, Remus Lupin approached them.

Kelso blushed just as much as she did yesterday night at the sight of the slender youth, and shrunk a little, diminishing what little presence she had.

Larka also had an instinct to shrink, but as Kelso had already filled up the shrinking quota of the group, she smoothed her robe out and smiled at him. "Hi there Remus."

"Yes, good noon to you as well. Would you be free at around, say, six o'clock today?"

Kelso raised her head abruptly. Larka pacifyingly patted her arm, giving her the message of 'Don't worry, it's alright'. Kelso did not seem pacified, and instead just stared at Remus out of the corner of her eyes.

"Of course—early dinners are good for the soul—dinners were noontime meals before they were delayed incrementally, I mean," Larka paused to stop her tumbling words. The essence of the matter, she told herself, only the essence of the matter. "Yes, I am free. Where can I find you?"

Remus looked her in a funny way before answering, "The library."

Oh. Of course. She was exceptionally anxious to make a fool of herself in public, wasn't she? "Should I go find you there then? After dinner? An early one, that is."

"Yes, that would be good. See you then." He left with a nod to Novia and Kelso, like a floating specter coming out of a gingerbread house with a marshmallow roof.

Larka pinched herself to confirm that it was not a strange dream, and was surprised by the pain and realism of the event. She couldn't follow him to acquire some gingerbread then, Larka sighed, and hoped that dinner might present some gingerbread desserts.

* * *

* Larka was not the best at the specifics of British education. Kelso Dorcas Meadows was an exchange student from Gently's School of Holistic Magical Theory. Larka was thinking of Arlene Day, the transfer student from The Private School of Enchantments and Charm-Work. These were drastically different people.

** Her mother's side of the family had as many Slytherins as Gryffindors actually, so perhaps her Gryffindor cousin had exaggerated a few tales, both in vengeance against his own Slytherin brother, or to encourage a kindred Gryffindor spirit in Larka so they might tip the scales in the Gryffindor favor. He did not take into account that exploding smelly bombs and conjured ghost pirates might traumatize an anxious ten-year-old girl. Larka did not end up with a favorable opinion of either House.


	5. The Fall of Galatea

**Chapter 4**

**The Fall of Galatea**

When she got to the library that early evening, most people were still dining merrily. She was quite early, coming after a hasty plate to secure a secluded and comfortable position for when Remus came. To her dismay, she found that Remus was already seated in the far corner of the empty library, almost hidden behind a mountain of books that looked suspicious and trembled with transfiguration magic inside.

She sighed, and straightened her back, striding to where Remus sat, and worked up an imperceptible 'Hullo'.

His hands trailed the end of the paragraph that he was reading and politely excused himself, "Sorry, just a second, Roxburgh."

Larka winced a little at her last name (didn't it sound so awful? She had never been fond of it), and tried to correct him, "Please don't be so formal, my name is—"

Remus looked up and peered at her from behind his glasses, eyes a soft golden hue yet somehow impeccably steely.

"—Larka…" She finished lamely.

Remus gave a non-committal hum and began sorting the books in front of them. "Yes, er—Larka. These are references that you might find helpful, I went through them during my Second Year."

Slightly discouraged, Larka studied him more closely. His wizard's robe was perhaps crisp navy blue some time ago, but time and neglect had faded it into a muddy, baffling sort of color, like the residue from winemaking. She cleared her throat and tried to engage in conversation: "Not many people here—is it usually this blithe?"

The corner of Remus mouth twitched a little: 'blithe' was hardly the description that people would give to the corner of dusty books that ate what little sunshine peeked through the yellowed windows. "Yes."

"Ah." Larka desperately tried to stay social. "The Muggle fiction section is wonderful.*"

Then, as if he felt sorry for her one-sided efforts to make small-talk, Remus asked, "So I take it that you like books?"

"Like! Books!" She sounded shocked but good-humored, and for once the contrived nonchalance fell away. "They are by far humanity's greatest invention—one vicariously breathes a multitude of lives! It is perhaps the only mean of living more than your years!" Then she remembered her place, and sheepishly apologized, "Sorry, I got a little carried away."

His hand stopped and hovered over a set of transfiguration texts while he looked up and stared into her eyes, startled. His glasses had slipped down his sharp nose and his eyes peered out. He seemed about to say something when an incautiously loud greeting approached them.

It was Sirius Black, a whirlwind as ever, covered in dirt and sweat, blazing into the little sanctuary.

"Not breaking a profound scene, I hope?" Not pausing for a second, he pulled up a chair and collapsed onto it, limbs sprawled out haphazardly. It was as if his bones melted. Indeed, he laid there much like a man with frail nerves would before his physician. "But what moment would be profound in the absence of me?"

Larka blinked. His sitting down was excused for—it was as if Novia had come and sat her by her, but his following comment was uncalled for, and a little obnoxious.

Remus cleared his throat, and again, before he had both of their attentions. "This _is _supposed to be a private tutoring session, you know?" he said pointedly to Sirius.

"But Remus, I'm so _tired_!" Sirius flopped down on the table and rested his head on a pillow of his two hands. "This is the only spot where people would not be looking for me!"

"Glad to know you have self-awareness."

"Remussss _please_," he pleaded like a child who knew his crying worked, "I—I just want somewhere to rest for a little bit. Somewhere with _people_ but you know, people I like. Why, you two would hardly notice me!"

"You _always_ have a large presence, Sirius, even when you're passed out on the floor."

"But that's only because out of the love you have for me, you can't allow me to drown in my own gorging vomit!"

"The point being, you require attention even when unconscious."

"But I can now consciously prevent my usual gathering of attention."

Remus scoffed.

"Oh Remus, I feel as if my body would shatter into dust particles and self-combust! Take pity on me!"

"You will have to ask if it's alright with Larka then."

Larka had watched this exchange in silent wonder, and could not speak when she was addressed quiet suddenly. She was aghast at the behavior of Sirius, who was petulant, and had an easy childishness. Was this frivolously _mortal_ person the very same unapproachable King who shook her core with his brutal eloquence but yesterday? She felt as if years' worth of idolatry came crashing down on her, and she did not even notice that Remus had called her by her first name.

"Larka, right?" Sirius turned his shining eyes on her, "You don't mind, if I just stayed here and breathed quietly, do you darling?"

His cheekiness gave Larka an indignation that loosened her lost tongue. "Only if you try to not breathe at all."

"Settled then!" Sirius cried out in glee. Before he collapsed entirely, he winked to Larka, "Don't worry, it's not usually me who makes the noise when it comes to private sessions."

Larka blushed and wanted very much to come up with a clever remark, but she was trembling too much to think properly.

Remus saved this moment, as if he was used to doing so, by saying to her, "Now Larka, what do you know on the theoretical root in turning a frog into a prince."

"I know that princes also turn into frogs," she glanced at Sirius, still a heap of lazy bones, head buried in his arms now.

"The secret to transfiguration is in the wrist…"

The rest of the evening passed in this way.

—

Remus felt terrible.

The lesson itself had gone quite well, with Larka picking up much quicker than he thought she would. McGonagall was never one for wasting anybody's time with lost causes, which was why he took this tutoring in the first place. Now, Sirius and James might not like Minerva McGonagall, but at least they respected her opinion, just like himself.

No, what made him feel so goddamn awful was Sirius.

He was being unusually brisk with the girl, in hopes that she did not see him as an easy stepping stone to James or Sirius. He had no reason to like her—he had all that he ever needed in the Marauders.

Then she looked at him with such a fire in her eyes, when she talked about living through books, that he felt a kindred fire light up in his chest. How many days—how many _years_ did he spend, living as she said, through books and their tales? How many years before he found his own adventures to live? A sense of guilt and familiarity hit him, and he smiled.

Then Sirius happened.

Remus rubbed his temple as he finished the last few sentences of the eighth ballad in _Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border_. Sirius was always such a jerk whenever he felt like somebody else was judging him unnecessarily, but he himself—well, he judged like nobody else did.

Sometimes he felt like the old border ballads had the right idea—real people never lived up to their ideals.

He will make sure Larka did well in her class, it was the only thing he knew he could do well.

—

Sirius was really not trying to be obnoxious, he swore to the grave of his favorite uncle Alphard. He really was tired to the bones. They had a secret Quidditch practice, and of course some blabbermouth just _had_ to tell his blabbermouth girlfriend, who then brought half the female population of the school to watch. So not only did he get beaten up by the blasted Bludgers, he also barely escaped the clutching claws of the witches.

He knew that Remus would be in his corner in the library, and thought that he should probably go there to pass out—no doubt the dormitory was full of girls and boys and James who was trying so hard to talk to Evans.

When he got there, some girl was with Remus. He couldn't remember her name, or where he had seen her before, but she seemed to be a quiet, unimposing sort of girl. She sat there in the way Remus had sat on the train when they first met him, and immediately Sirius felt relieved that he could safely take a nap.

He could see the disappointment in her eyes, and felt his heart grow steely. It always happened, the moment they saw something other than a morose, mysterious god, they always looked at him with disappointment. They took one look upon his face and decided his character, just like people used to look at his last name and decide his future. All these women, all these girls—every single last one of them passed judgment on him before he ever gave them anything to judge, and then had the nerve to say he was not what they thought.

He ignored her just like any other, and then was deliberately crass with her.

However, she, one of the most harmless looking little things that he had ever laid eyes on, gave a punch of a line right before he fell into dark sleep.

_Interesting._

* * *

* It was an exaggeration of her sentiments. Although Larka was more passionate about books than she should have been, as Novia was disposed to state, her knowledge of fiction laid in the Wizarding section. Few wizards or witches also published in the Muggle realm. Remus was a great lover of Muggle poetry and fiction, she knew, and Larka felt like her zeal over _The Waves_ justified her appreciation.


	6. All Traditions Start Somewhere

**Chapter 5**

**All Traditions Start Somewhere**

Months passed, and months' worth of evenings also passed.

Life was kind to Larka in various ways. Kelso got along with the both of them remarkably well, filling a space that neither knew was empty to begin with, and the duo turned into a trio. Kelso's cheeks naturally were red like she had been facing the bitter winter's wind, and it filled Larka with a joy to see those cheeks pinched up in a smile.

Larka's also made steady leaps in Transfiguration, and even in a bout of genius successfully transformed a pocket watch into a time bomb. McGonagall had asked for a cuckoo clock, but since a time bomb was by far the more intricate transfiguration, she praised Larka as Larka frantically tried to reverse her spell. The bomb ticked away willfully, and in the end Kelso had defused it by pulling out all the colored wires.* It was a miracle that nothing blew up (calling into question the actual success of the transfiguration), but a bigger miracle was ten points to Gryffindor for a superb spell and an admirable display of teamwork.

Larka was just happy that McGonagall no longer looked at her with clear pity in her scholarly eyes (it was a wonder that Larka thought she could see anything in the clear, severe gaze of McGonagall).

And last but certainly not least, she touched the pinnacle of the Hogwarts hierarchy.

The so-called hierarchy was really just a step pyramid with a middle that matched the width of the base, and at the top sat the lot of _them_, who more often than not showed up at her tutoring sessions. By lot Larka meant always Sirius, sometimes James, and Peter whenever James came. This buy-one-get-three-free deal happened with a strange frequency, almost as if they viewed their dry sessions as some sort of recurring soap opera.

Speaking of soap operas—

McGonagall tapped her fork against her crystal chalice in a gesture to silence the student population. Despite being the Gryffindor head, she was bestowed with this task every time the students needed a silencing. She was very good at it, and perhaps enjoyed it a bit too much, but Larka could not pass judgment on a Professor like that.

In any case, Larka continued to devour her food, slipping a few slices of banana bread into an envelope she made with napkins. (The table napkins were always surprisingly large and sturdy, and Larka had more than once imagined what purpose were they designed to serve—perhaps a quick tug of war or stuffing the turkey?) Today was Wednesday, and Wednesday was always her longest day, as she had to stay up late to study the night stars. It was actually a very agreeable assignment, if she didn't have to sacrifice so much sleep.

The Headmaster came forward to speak, but everybody knew what he was going to say anyway. It was that time of the year, Larka nodded to herself, and patted Kelso reassuringly.

Kelso was not the only person paying attention though, because despite its annual tradition, it was a message much loved by the students. So the halls became uncannily quiet for the Headmaster, who cleared his throat ceremonially.

"As many of you know, and more of you should know," he began, and an undercurrent of excitement was already brewing, "The Friday of next week will be the three hundred and fiftieth anniversary of the founding of Hogwarts."

Last year had been the three hundred and forty-ninth, Larka remembered. She had genuinely been enthusiastic (if confused at the importance of such an odd number such as three hundred and forty five) her first year. She clapped anyhow, resolved to show support for the Headmaster, who she decided she liked the moment she saw his crescent-moon shaped glasses. Such impracticality was a sure sign of genius and geniality, she believed.

The clapping died away quickly.

"Such a celebratory occasion calls for a celebratory event." A few faces among the faculty did not agree, and Filch the staff Caretaker especially did not share this jovial sentiment as he rolled his eyes and made a very funny face. "So in spirit of that, next Friday will be the Commemorative Ball of Celebratory Cheer, as we all agreed."

Filch definitely did not give his agreement in any shape or form, but the Headmaster had a dodgy definition of 'we all', as he grew to learn over the years.

The First Years made some commotion, but McGonagall fulfilled her vigil and shushed them down with one steely glance, sweeping across the four Houses and leaving no First Year unafraid.

To ensure that the youths of tomorrow were not traumatized too greatly, however, Dumbledore himself swept the First Years with his twinkling eyes, and let every single one of them believe that he was winking to them specifically. (Larka always wanted to learn the charm on his glasses for that.) This restored some of their bravado, and the noise levels increased accordingly.

Despite the lack of novelty and certainly lack of surprise, the Ball still dominated the topic of conversation throughout the night.

Before second desserts were served, Kelso had already accepted with blushing propriety the invitation of one boy**. Novia had refused two boys already, her head high and breathing heavily through her nose, looking like a Queen. (Which Larka thought was very appropriate as the accompanying piece to a King.) Larka spent the night happily if artlessly not expecting any boy to ask her.

(Truth be told, Larka was a very, very fortunate girl, because she was so easily satisfied by having her expectations met, and her expectations were not high.)

So night swung by with nothing out of order, and Larka frolicked down from the girl's dormitory to go to the Astronomy tower, just as happy as before with four thick slices of banana bread well hidden from sight.

The first bit of surprise came in the form of the Four Kings gathered before the blazing mantle, up after curfew and not even bothering to be discrete about it.

Or perhaps surprise was somewhat of a strong term for it, because even for Larka, who was often lost in her thoughts, it was not the surprising to see the Marauders out of bed after hours. In fact, they seemed to misunderstand 'curfew' with 'suggested nap time'. She was only surprised out of formality and sympathy for the rules.

The second bit of surprise was in how her feet carried her to behind them contrary to her command, bringing her to be at an advantageous position to admire the backs of their heads (and eavesdrop).

What the boys were saying were as follow:

"So, any movement in your trench war with Evans, Prongs?" Sirius said conversationally, clearing knowing the answer already.

James sighed dreamily as he ruffled his own hair, determined to get it to stick at just the right angles to pierce Lily's formidable heart.

Remus gave a sympathetic grunt (or as sympathetic as grunts could be), and Peter optimistically offered, "It took the Muggles a long time too!"

"Thanks Wormtail, really cheering me up. I'll have to go alone again," James yielded, "Since last year's plan to get her jealous did mostly backfire."

"Oy, it was the bird you chose, Prongs, if I were Evans I would be more worried about catching something rather than getting jealous." Sirius waved his complaint off.

"Messieurs Prongs and Padfoot are always such sages after the fact," Remus commented dryly, still engrossed in his book and even managed to turn a page.

(At this point, Larka was more fascinated by their nicknames than anything else. There was so much she could read into each one—like _Padfoot_ was another name for hellhounds and often associated with electrical storms and it was very morbid and romantic and goodness the dog was said to bear people's _souls_ away and—)

"Brooks was the better choice, as I told you."

Oh, Novia Brooks, now there was an idea.

Sirius continued though, not pausing to give Novia much thought, "You, Moony? Snatched a bird for the dancing yet?"

Remus looked up from his book and shook his head slightly, then bent down again, letting his fair blond hair fall curtaining his head. "Not everyone is as you, and finds their single pursuit of life—in birds."

Sirius scowled playfully, and shoved his arm, "Nonsense, I haven't dated a bird yet this year!"

"Good for you," Remus mockingly praised, and surrendered his book with a soft 'thud'. "Besides, I don't believe I'll go to the ball."

James and Sirius gasped in perfect unison, and called out in pseudo agony, "No! But why?"

"Because, I'm not comfortable, with the, er, timing...you see..." he lifted his head and looked out the window. Larka thought that the back of his head was rather sad.

"Oh! Right, I forgot!" James slapped his forehead and nudged Sirius.

"Easy for you to say," Remus muttered.

Sirius looked at Remus guiltily, before looping an arm around his shoulder. "Oh be a sport Moony! Why, if anybody is a sucker for tradition, it's you, so how can you miss this? It's only the day _before_ your furry little problem, and someone might be waiting for you!"

A lost look on his face, Remus asked, completely confused, "What? Who?"

"How should _I_ know?" James drawled the sentence too long and too leisurely to be sincere, and he too was close to pouncing on him, and Remus did not have any more room to spare.

Remus sighed, agitated that after all these time, they were still teasing him on that particular subject. "You're implying Larka? You must be kidding. If you're so keen on finding her a partner, why not ask her yourself?"

Sirius threw back his head of black hair and declared, "Oh but she's not pretty enough, she does not have the lusciously red hair, those large emerald eyes that charmed you more than a spell would, and that pearly voice of hers, sounding as if distinct bells tolled! Ain't that right, Prongs old boy?"

Larka shed the silencing charm (that her hand had cast without her command at some point) and proposed helpfully, "Why not try Novia then?"

Sirius was for once, lost for words as he spun around to see Larka standing behind the sofa, watching the lot of them with a neutral expression. "Oh Larka darling, I did not mean to undermine your beauty! Why, I could write _sonnets_ for you! Your skin glows with unseen moonlight, and your gaze holds all the starlight of this galaxy, and that pooling waterfall of hair that you have!—It's like ribbons of—"

Larka cut him off before he went too far into a monologue, "It's a good idea I think: Novia doesn't have a date yet, why waste such a chance?"

"A chance for what?"

"A chance to actually write a sonnet, to a sonnet-worthy lady—that is, if you can figure out what rhyme and meter a sonnet holds before then."

Sirius's eyes glinted at the implied insult on his intelligence. No more was said between the two of them.

Remus almost felt like crying. It seemed as if nothing good ever came out of reading _Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border_.

* * *

* A Muggle-born boy had hummed a distressingly catchy tune as they were trying to save the entire class. He later put his palm up to Kelso, who high-fived him shyly and explained the concept of high-fiving to Larka and Novia. The boy had ruddy cheeks that matched Kelso in its redness, and despite his very round nose, Larka thought him and Kelso made a sweet picture. Then she realized that she was behaving like her mother, and decided to discourage all further thoughts of matchmaking. It was a slippery slope, descending into one's parents' flaws, Larka knew.

** Yes, this was the Muggle-born boy in Transfiguration who hummed the James Bond theme song.


	7. A Sonnet for Thy Beauty

**Chapter 6**

**A Sonnet for Thy Beauty**

The next day was spent in anxiety and excitement.

Larka could barely think, as all her thoughts were occupied with: _'It's happening, it's finally happening'_. That was the excitement. The anxiety bit was puzzling, but she passed it off as just general misgivings of Sirius's sonnet-writing skill.

Overall, she was exceedingly proud of herself—she finally made good of the promise to herself, that she would march right up to Sirius and make him give Novia a shot. Of course, there was absolutely no reason that Sirius would not fall in love with Novia once he spent time with her. After all, if only Sirius had an hour to see Novia's beauty like she did, then surely he would not be able to tear his eyes away ever again.

Of course, she did remember him saying that she herself wasn't pretty enough, but she already knew that. In a way, it hurt less than she thought it would, but at the same time, she felt like a certain part of her, some unborn, unvoiced thought nestled deep within her, died.

She spent her night in dreaming and her day in waiting. Every moment of the day she stayed close by Novia's side, her feverish eyes scaring Novia a little.

Still, no sign of Sirius.

A gradual sense of panic settled in Larka as the day passed. There was nothing she could do: they were Fifth years, and Sirius a Sixth year, so they shared no classes. Lunch was a public affair, and she could not remind him in front of the masses of eavesdropping people.

He didn't even give her the usual smile of recognition as they passed him in the hallway this one time.

She was lost in her reveries when Kelso Meadows nudged her arm frantically.

_Sirius Black_, she hissed out—as did every chair, every brick, every particle in the air.

Larka had, of course, told Kelso that Sirius had told her that he was to ask Novia to the ball, but Kelso had her doubts. She did not believe Larka to be so close to the Four in the first place—she only got lessons from the lesser known Remus Lupin once in a while, did she really think that she was bosom friends with the group? Also, Kelso had never actually seen Sirius talk to Novia—not once. Was asking out not usually preceded by general chatter at the very least? Kelso was not even sure if Sirius knew Novia's name.

Until this moment, that was.

Novia noticed the approaching Sirius as well, and quickly turned to her book, pretending to be in a state of deep concentration and ladylike scholarship. It would have been a good pretense too, if her eagle feather quill did not quiver slightly in her tight clutch.

Sirius first went to Larka, nodded to her, and gave a curt "Larka" as greeting. Kelso smiled internally at how Larka really did oversell herself when it came to being friends with Sirius. Look at how brisk he was with her!

Then he went on to Novia, putting a hand on her shoulder and called out her name softly, "Novia."

Novia feigned snapping out of her focus and looked up from her scroll. "Oh!" she exclaimed, "Oh hi Sirius."

Sirius watched her in amusement as the silence draped over them, and Novia squirmed as she tried to think of something to say. Larka noticed his malignance and gave a slight kick to his foot. He did not so much as turn his head, but his free hand did wave slightly at her, as if to say: '_Trust me, I've got this_.' Larka relaxed. He was right: he had plenty of experience asking girls out, she should trust him when it came to his comfort zone.

Suddenly, he cleared his throat and in a voice that servants announced the coming of grand lords, bellowed out:

_"Oh fairest lady of the Hogwarts ground,_  
_How I have wide and far looked to find thee_  
_My tired bones and hot blood you cannot see,_  
_But trust when I say I was but a hound._  
_Come with me and a queen you shall be crowned,_  
_And if but with a nod thou shalt agree,_  
_Will make my heart the lightest day for me!_  
_For not lifting your hand I am spellbound."_

Larka could barely refrain herself from laughing, as Sirius literally read his sonnet out in iambic pentameter. As she awaited the sestet to complete his poem, Sirius shot her a somewhat distressed look.

"Well, that's all I have so far," he nevertheless grinned.

"Oh please," Larka teased, "Just the octave does not make a sonnet out of eight lines."

"Larka!" Novia shushed her, "Don't be so rude." And to Sirius, "You were trying to say something?"

Siruis's face fell as he realized the girl had no idea what the question she was supposed to nod yes to was, and lamented that he was not born a poet. "Oh, I was asking if you would go to the Cheering Ball* with me."

Novia's eyes widened as she squeaked out a feeble "Yes".

Larka and Kelso sneaked away, leaving the two to plan out their matching attire and various other life plans. They stood like guardians near the Common Room entrance, and were successful in scaring some small First Years away.

A short while later, Sirius walked out and flashed them a broad, cheeky grin as he disappeared.

Inside, Novia did not bother to pick up the parchment that fell on the floor somewhere during the proposal, nor clean the little pool of ink that her quill had fabricated. She ran directly to Larka as the both of them reentered the room, throwing herself upon Larka like a ball of tempest.

Larka was quite sure that even those in the Slytherin Common Room had heard she yell out her name and the following: "He asked me to the ball! _Sirius Black_ asked me to the ball! He asked _me_ to the ball! _He asked me to the ball_!"

_Yes, Novia_, Larka thought as she begun to see bright stars and hear a certain buzzing in her ears, _I think most people get the drift_. Of course, she was only vaguely annoyed by the unnecessary hollering, being a Lover of Peace and All Things Quiet.

Kelso also smiled happily, "Oh Novia, now you will be the envied queen of all the girls! What a wonderful thing!"

—

"So how did the audience like your first poetry reading?" James asked Sirius as he returned, making sure that the golden snitch that he was toying in his hands could be seen by Lily Evans.

"Swept them away with the poetic words in the poetic lines—all I saw were pale faces when I finished." Sirius shrugged carelessly.

Remus joined in the conversation, "I'm sure they were just aghast that you didn't even write a sestet for it."

"You sound just like Larka," Sirius whined.

"Ah of course," Remus turned away with a small smile, "that _actual_ intended target of your poem."

"Hey!" Sirius retorted, not a beat behind, "I could never lie down before an insult to the great mind of Sirius Black! Why—if she had asked me to write a collection of sonnets, I would have had the binding for her by today!"

"Yes, I'm sure you would have written a hundred bad sonnets to her."

"Moony! Oh Prongs, rest for half a second from your show-off, would ya? She's not even looking at you!"

James grudgingly put away the golden ball. "Yeah, you would have needed to write a hundred sonnets to make up for calling her not pretty enough."

"It's true though!" Sirius replied, "Remember that—oh what was her name, Scarlett? That red-lipped bird that I dated in Third Year, what a beauty! Oh, and that otherworldly blond that looked like she could be a Veela, just last year. And the sultry-eyed temptress also in Third Year. Hm, that was a good year for me."

Remus shook his head at Sirius losing track of the conversation. "You know as well as I that Cupid is painted blind for a reason."

"And Evans, I have gone blind for you!" James climbed to the top of the sofa and hollered at the top of his lungs towards Lily, who covered her face with her hands.

Remus sighed. All these boys were lost causes when it came to love.

* * *

* Larka was not the only one with trouble with specifics. Sirius also didn't care enough about Novia to get the name of the Ball right, although he really thought the Ball tradition was just _ace_. He understood the importance of tradition, despite spending most of his life trying to break free of it—sometimes there were things larger than oneself, and nothing spoke more of that than tradition. It did not have to be a crest or a throne to inherit, but even his pranking held the faint aura of Tradition.


	8. Midnight Strikes, Cinderella

**Chapter 7**

**Midnight Strikes, Cinderella**

The day of the ball was a nightmare for the professors. Nobody could settle down quite enough to listen to any lessons, not even the best students. So no teacher (with the exception of Professor Binns, who droned on without realizing his own death like usual) expected much that day. The students, empowered, made no attempt to even hide their inattention. Even Professor McGonagall was quite powerless, so it's not a question that Professor Torley could do much, especially since it was not a usual lesson.

Professor Slughorn had opportunely not shown up for that day, and so the Sixth Year potions lessons had to merge with Torley's own Fifth Year ones for the day. Torley sat in front of the students sulkily, and Larka looked at him just as sulkily.

While all the others were happily chuntering on, she was seated next to Severus Snape, a Slytherin known for his unfriendliness and lack of emotions. She had tried her best to work up some sort of small talk, but always got a brisk and often rude reply. She soon gave up, and just sulked quietly in the raucous classroom, stirring her spoon in a bottle of unknown liquid and turning pages of her textbook.

"If you are so bored, why don't you find another Gryffindor to keep you company," a bitter voice said beside her, clenching teeth at the word 'Gryffindor', "like that asinine and ridiculous Black?"

Larka blinked, looked at Severus, who was still intensely looking at his books and writing on a piece of parchment that already had at least three feet of tiny letters, with his hooked nose close to it. She looked away, around, and back again. "Pardon me, were you talking to me?"

He sneered, "Is there anyone else sitting beside me?"

Larka blinked again, taken back by his rudeness, but thought that she would return rudeness with politeness. "Well you see, it is still a lesson, I can't just get up and leave. Besides, Potions isn't that dull."

Snape was taken aback by her politeness, and remained quiet.

Larka was disappointed by his lack of response and had dropped back to reading the textbook again, when she was surprised again by his deriding voice, "Black doesn't care for rules."

It was her turn to be taken back. "Sirius Black? Well, I'm not exactly the same as him."

"Your friend Brooks might wish it differently."

Once again, Larka was surprised by his rudeness. I really ought to be getting used to it, she thought wryly. Still, his knowledge of the gossip around the school was fairly substantial.

"Oh, they're dating," she said airily, "What do you expect out of lovebirds but to be near each other all the time?" She brushed aside any bubbling feelings of discomfort—some sensation that she tried not to name. She turned to Snape and tried to meet his dark eyes, partly concealed behind greasy hair—something about his rigid awkwardness made it easy for her to talk. "Who are you going with, Severus?"

Snape was not used to people calling him by his first name. In fact, he couldn't remember anyone using it, and here this strange girl was talking to him, getting friendlier than Malfoy, who had known him for six years. "No one," he responded brusquely.

"Really?" She asked with an innocent that was cruel to Snape. "But you must be fairly popular with the Slytherins!"

He shook his head slowly, not sure what to make of this eccentric girl. "Mind your own business, Roxburgh," he said a bit too harshly and finally destroyed any goodwill on Larka's part.

"Okay."

She kept silent through the rest of the lesson, her ears faintly picking up the melodious voice of Sirius and the tinkling laughter of Novia.

* * *

Larka enjoyed the ball more than she would have, given that she did not have a date to the event. There was some poor boy from Hufflepuff that had asked her to accompany her, but if she but wore heels of two inches, she would have overtaken him in height. Larka was not one to discriminate by height, but she could already see what tortures the boy would have had to face, if they did walk together.

Being date-less simply meant she danced less and ate more, which was perfectly fine by her. Kelso was in her best pale pink dress robe that brought out her rosy cheeks, and currently was asked to dance with some Edmund. Remus had slinked off after barely showing up, his face pale and his fingers trembling. Larka did not know why a mere dance scared the normally composed Remus so, but he would undoubtedly feel better once he went back to sleep it off. James was, well, trying to steal Lily away from her date as usual, with Peter and his little lady chatting not far off.

The star of tonight's show was Novia though, linked arm in arm with Sirius Black, walking down the stairs in a silvery dress and a smile more radiant than the sun. They had begun the night in the center of the room, much to Novia's dismay—but those who dated Sirius often found themselves in such a position, Novia included.

As the night went on, however, Novia did notice that Larka was in a corner stuffing her face with cakes and pies. She had chatted briefly with Remus, who had asked about her grades, and then danced with some boy from Ravenclaw who was a year her junior. She found that she enjoyed eating more than being stepped on, and had retreated to the hors d'oeuvres table happily.

"Larka? Come on out. It's a nice slow song, and I'm sure I can find someone to dance with you!"

"Oh I can look for myself."

"Don't be barmy, you can't begin to approach a boy if I lent you a whole pitcher of beer*."

Larka frowned slightly, but then decided to make a joke out of it, "I promise you, the moment I see a boy that I like, I will swoop in and prey upon him before he notices my shadow!"

Low chuckles came behind her, and Sirius soon walked around to Novia's side. "Upon an unsuspecting, unknown boy! I must admit, I like the idea." He put a casual hand Novia's shoulder, raising a blush on her fair ceramic skin. "I see you're just like Remus at these social gatherings—except you have a better appetite."

Larka looked down at her plate full of scraps of pies, and hung her head in blushing shame.

"I'll get us another drink," Novia said sympathetically, and patted Larka on the arm.

"Let me," Sirius piped in.

"No, no, it's fine, I would like to see what's there anyway," Novia shook her head. "Ask about _Remus_," she then whispered to Larka.

Larka didn't know whether she should laugh or cry—why did Novia and Kelso insist on pairing her up with Remus? The boy was wonderful, but she simply did not have a fluttering heart near him! Watching the figure of Novia weaving through the crowds, she asked Sirius, "Find her to your taste?"

"Haven't quite gotten there yet," he replied with an easy smirk.

Larka was lost; or at least she was determined to be lost as to his meaning when he had that lewd smirk on.

Seeing her lack of response, Sirius shrugged and walked to her side, giving an uncharacteristically proper answer now. "She's a bit shy—not at all like the rumors, really, they say she's all wild and harsh."

"You can't believe everything you hear, I thought you would know that!" she clucked disapprovingly. "She's the sort of girl who puts up a fierce front, but is really just soft and squishy inside."

"Yeah?"

She looked away from him, unable to face his earnestness all of a sudden. "Yeah."

A wind blew into the room through a nearby window, and the curtain sighed, a soft '_shh'_. Sirius drew open the curtain to reveal the nightscape. They could see the edge of the Forbidden Forest from here, dark and apocalyptic, and Larka was both afraid of it and wanted to see more.

"The view is spectacularly dark," Sirius said offhandedly, less of a conversation starter than accidently spilling some inner thought.

There was nobody else there, so as his only audience, she replied, "It generally gets dark at night, yes."

He caught her quizzical glance, and explained himself (in a fit of madness induced by the moon surely, for since when did Sirius Black explain himself to anyone?), "It's always dark like this. I like it."

Larka did not expect him to be appreciative of the dark, not after his very loud and very public denouncements of Black, and all things tied to it. It was strange, she thought, to see Sirius admitting to a simple, straightforward idea, as if—well, as if he was just like her. "The Forbidden Forest?" she asked, suddenly seeing that yes, the Forest did look curiously deep in its darkness that looked like somebody spilled ink all around.

"Oh yes, Remus and James and Peter and I, we run in it all the time—and me telling you is part of my pose to be blasé and unconventional, of course," he smiled at her. It wasn't the normal sort of grin he had on, but was slower and more hesitant.

She suddenly realized that he was more self-aware than she gave him credit for. Caught, startled, between his eyes and smile, she felt a slow-birthing conviction inside her, and unthinkingly, she voiced it, "It must be good to have you as a friend; to have you point out beauty where there was none before."

Although Larka did not know it, but her conviction was the biggest compliment that a bird had yet to give him. So to return the favor, he gave her his slow smile again, grabbed her wrist, and pointed to the elusive spot where the silvery tip of the Giant Squid** could be seen, a floating light amid the darkness. "See that? Even the foulest monster has its moments, no?"

Her wrists burned a little where his fingers had held her. He faced out, and the night outside sculpted his face sharply. Larka couldn't help but hold her breath. Sirius had the sort of pretty face that women idolized and men scorned: soft, curling black hair covered his brows, careful and arching, as if he drew them on. The playful light cast long shadows, extending the exquisite corner of his gray eyes. She had always been aware of how Sirius was a handsome boy, but there was something exceptionally devastating about him right now, something rare that she couldn't pinpoint to before, but in that moment saw in full clarity.

"Yes," she responded breathlessly after a beat, "it's wonderful to not see anything and imagine what fantastical things could be happening out there."

He did not seem to notice her momentary breathlessness, and instead started talking amicably about nothing much. The moonlight seemed to break an invisible dam between them, and the taut airs that separated them seemed to have vanished. Conversation flowed forth: words and phrases, questions and replies, declarations and agreements. In fact, this soft, friendly chatter came so effortlessly that their awkwardness a few moments before felt quite outlandish.

She discovered that he had tickets for _Maurin Quina_—a band that they both appreciated—but could not go last summer, and they shared a lament over that. Although Sirius said that he could never settle on just one band as his favorite. Larka was alarmed to hear that occasionally he felt the urge to jump off his broomstick in Quidditch matches, and instead took refuge in heedless romps in the mud pit. He admitted that he had a somewhat embarrassing difficulty in remember proper nouns, including people's names, and she guiltily admitted to the practice of buying selections of books but never got around to reading them. She shared her holiday plans with him, and he said that he would be visiting California instead of seeing his family.

Sirius was hesitant to talk about his own family, so naturally Larka offered him her own family, telling him how her father always smelled like strawberry pipes and had half-joking aspirations to be a poet after he retired from his editing job; how her mother had a spectacular memory for distant relatives and their quirks but could not ever remember where she put down the keys; how they had a dog once, when she was young, a large Newfoundland whose fur was her nappy spot and how she could never get another dog; how she had almost had a younger brother but that was a tragedy trimmed and put away in a drawer somewhere; how they never got a Christmas tree for the holidays because her father insisted that he was allergic to pine moulds. It made her miss home an awful lot, and she thought that Sirius looked wistful about her home as well.

Everything was swimmingly well, and Larka was getting light in the head from the wine that she had yet to drink when she saw Novia returning with two goblets. Her tongue stopped making sounds, and the dam was rebuilt.

"It took forever to get some blasted wine!" Novia complained as she gulped down the liquid in her goblet. "Here, drink up."

"Eh, Novia? What about Sirius?" Larka inquired softly.

Novia looked at her with large, moist, cerulean eyes and flushed cheeks, and then at Sirius, who was trying to hide his grin. "Oh," she said, too used to taking care of Larka and herself—and only themselves—and only then realizing her mistake, "err, do you want mine, Sirius?"

"No, I'll pass." Sirius waved easily. He was not looking at either one of them in particular, but his eyes glinted with some ball of strange, fierce light, the kind that moved and broke hearts. "Wine is for the pale, vapory kind, its color becomes them. As for me, trade my soul for fire whiskey or butterbeer!"

As he spoke, a chill draft blew in and he shrugged off his jacket to drape it over Novia.

Larka felt the need to leave, leave right then, and escape the burning eyes and the blushing Novia. "Right," she muttered quietly, "I'll be heading back, bit stuffy here."

She ran off before either of them could make out a word.

* * *

* Larka Roxburgh suffered an incident involving a pint of beer and a boy in her Second Year. She had gotten drunk off of a small portion of alcohol passed to her by Novia, whose friendship she was keen to strengthen after the long stretch of summer. In her eagerness to be a good sport, Larka had downed the drink a bit too quickly for her twelve year old body mass, and soon was beet red and had begun hiccupping very distressingly. It was not a pleasant memory, not helped in the least that her mouth tasted furry the next day, and Novia had yet to understand the cruelty of sunlight and noise to a hangover.

** The Giant Squid happened to be rather friendly to Sirius Altair Deneb Black, and he was actually waving to the boy—else he would not have been glowing visibly, and instead nestled deep in the blackened waters. The Squid had a soft spot for troublesome boys who threw rocks into the lake, for the little bitsy mermaids would fight amongst themselves to catch the stones, and the Squid like a catfight as much as the next male specimen.


	9. The Magic Ends

**Chapter 8**

**The Magic Ends**

The next few sunrises and sunsets saw Novia at her most radiant. All her days went swimmingly well—and if there was anything less than perfect, just one thought of Sirius took all worries away.

Larka was happy—oh so happy indeed for her friend. Yet in her stomach settled a heavy feeling, and in the back of her mind a taut nagging. She felt uneasy sometimes, partly because Sirius did not share that same glow. She did not think it was possible though—just a few days more, she would tell herself, and then the rest of love would follow, and Sirius's eyes will beam just like Novia's. She did not question why the image of that, of the two together, made her stomach churn even more.

Determined to not see past Novia's happiness, Larka poured all her feverish energy into classes. She spent her days studying, reviewing, previewing, and practicing, and by nighttime, she would be so exhausted that she falls straight to a dreamless sleep.

The observant Remus had noticed her shift in behavior, and had questioned her subtly, and then hinted that she should take a few days to simply lounge and do nothing at all. Larka changed the subject quickly, and Remus never brought it up again.

Novia did not notice much these days, blind in love, but Kelso saw everything. She awaited the day when Novia would be heartbroken, and Larka would be burnt out.

It happened on a fine Saturday afternoon.

The Common Room was more or less empty, most students preferring the sun-kissed Hogsmeade to the castle.

As usual, Larka was working through a colossal pile of books in the common room, finishing her second bottle of ink and breaking her fifth quill. She growled in frustration as the tip of the quill gave a quick snapping sound and broke. Just as she was getting up to fetch another quill, someone pushed open the painting of the Fat Lady and up to the girls' dormitory, rushing across the room in a blur of pale green, leaving only the hollow echo of sobbing.

The Fat Lady clicked her tongue in commiseration, shaking her head, as she swung closed, repeating over and over again, "Poor thing..."

Larka listened to the sobbing resonating through the empty room, and a nasty feeling rose in her stomach. That green looked awfully familiar...

She gasped, dropping the broken quill on the floor, and ran just as quickly up the spiral stairs, her fingers crossed as she prayed that it wasn't who she thought it was.

Oh, but it was. It was Novia in the pale green dress robe embroidered with golden stars, the one that Larka picked out for her a week ago. The girl was curled up in such a way that her face was out of sight, and her backbone looked like it was about to break. Her hair was tangled wildly and she hadn't even kicked off her shoes.

They were supposed to be in Hogsmeade village together, being lovebirds and making other people jealous. They were supposed to go to the favorite bar of Sirius. They were not supposed to be apart, and Novia was definitely not supposed to be crying her heart out.

It was apparent what had happened.

"Novia…"

"Le-eave me-e al-lone..." her voice could be heard, muffled by the pillow, and coarse from crying.

Larka thought it was best to do that, and went downstairs, unable to concentrate on her work, and instead looked at her broken quill for a very long time.

She saw naught of Novia till dinnertime, when she entered the hall and took her usual place at the far end of the Gryffindor table without a word. Her eyes were puffy and swollen, and it appeared that even then her tears were controlled with struggle. She avoided any inquiring gazes, neither ate nor spoke, and after some time, on Larka's tender probe as to whether she was all right, her small level of endurance was overcome: she burst into tears and ran.

This fierce depression continued the whole evening. Anything of the slightest relation to Sirius overwhelmed her in an instant, and though they were all most considerate, and anxiously trying to cheer her up, it was quite impossible for them to keep clear of every small detail. She did not have any control over her tears because she didn't wish to. Even sleep was a tremulous event, as she was awake for the most of the night, and wept the greatest part of it.

The next morning, Novia woke to a headache, unable to find her tongue, and unwilling to receive any attempt of consolation from either Larka or Kelso.

She played over every song that they danced to, recited everything they talked of, till her heart was so filled with grief that no additional sorrow could find room in her; and this grief was every moment refreshed. In walks, too, she courted the misery in the contrast between the past and the present. But someone whose nature was to be blissful could not support such violent affliction forever and it sunk within a few days into a softer melancholy; yet the daily routines of going over her sorrows still was practiced as religiously as ever.

Larka watched the process with a heavy heart, and still found comfort in studying, trying to create her world within books and papers. Her pain was no less than Novia's, for unlike Kelso, she had been friends with Novia since their first year, which for all the world seemed like the dawn of life.

Novia had not been the best possible friend at every occasion, and sometimes fell into an oppressive habit that gave her a sense of superiority to Larka, but had she not had Novia to endured the years… Larka did not think any other person, except perhaps her family, that meant to her more than this weeping girl, who had poured light wherever she went.

This state continued for a week, the last day upon which Remus found it impossible to even talk by himself during their study session to such a glum face. James and Peter were focused on Lily, who was studying with her group of friends not far off, and provided no additional stress. The presence of Sirius, however, who had insisted as usual with a blasé ignorance of the pains around him, was not helping.

"Larka? Are you..." Remus started, unsure of how to finish it.

Larka looked up, her eyes more bloodshot than he could ever remember, and smiled bitterly, "Yes, I'm fine."

"You look like you might need a drink—I mean, a tea or something of the sort. Come on James, let's go get some refreshments."

"Does the library allow beverages?" James questioned.

"A bit of tea never hurt anybody—and we can sneak it in quite easily." Remus cast off James's look of wide wonder and beckoned for both him and Peter to follow.*

Larka was somewhat relieved to see them go and not continue asking about her feelings. That was, until—

"Larka? Er, you're not upset over the whole," Sirius waved his hands demonstratively, "Sonnet-ball-affair, are you?"

Larka went on reading her book.

"You are, aren't you? Well that's a silly thing to be upset over—let's talk about it."

A page was flipped.

"Larka? Really, I had meant no harm—you know how I am!"

The book was shut with a thud, and Larka opened another one.

Sirius's brows knit together, and grabbed her wrist, careful to have a light but firm hold. "Oh come on, you're not giving me the silence treatment! I don't deserve it!"

Larka shook his hand off, and stood up, her eyes narrowing in anger, and her voice rising without notice, "What _do_ you deserve then?—For hurting Novia, my best friend, my _only_ friend for five years. A pat on your back—'Good job, old boy, you sure broke that heart alright'? How about a congratulatory pint, on me! Or let's see, why don't you save us all some trouble and crawl somewhere to wither and die, like how Novia is doing?"

Sirius stood up also, scowling and taking a step closer.

Larka took a step back, slightly afraid, but nonetheless shouted, "Do you ever see yourself in the mirror and want to kill yourself? Because you've given many girls that urge. And you come here, waltzing in, and expect me to be all sweet to you?"

"You see her beauty, and so thought I should love her for it? Don't be naive, Larka, I've seen my share of beautiful women, and all of them are the same."

"I'm naive for thinking—oh, there's a girl that's beautiful in every sense of the word, why, for sure she should have a chance at whoever she likes? If you—if you take away your Black beauty, what would _you_ have left?"

Sirius did not believe that Larka had just said that. He stared at her with wide eyes and did not say a word.

The library, silent now except for their heavy breathing, seemed to still itself in response.

They were fortunate that the library was empty, without anybody to witness this embarrassing fight—except, there was a dark figure in a dim corner.

"Roxburgh?" Snape came out of his little haven by the border of the restricted section and walked over. "What the hell are you shouting for?" Then he saw Sirius and his face fell dark, "Black."

"Severus," she made a point of being more intimate with Snape than she was, "Let's go." Larka took his arm before he had time to protest, and left a gloomy faced Sirius behind.

* * *

* In fact Remus never returned with tea—it had only been a thinly veiled excuse that he never intended to fulfill. There had been a time when he foolishly agreed to beverages (certainly not tea either), and they went about their marauding ways, and a certain set of ancient and clawed manuscripts lost their curved horns due to the acidity of tequila.


	10. The Age of Discovery

**Chapter 9**

**The Age of Discovery**

That night, insomnia stroke Larka.

She tried cataloging every star she remembered, went over the names of every healing herb, listed all the use of blood of different magical creatures, and she even gone to the Muggle way of counting sheep. Still, sleep evaded her, and when the morning sun rose, she could barely open her eyes, and every inch of her was determined to let no one see anything unusual in her behavior.

That failed, of course, considering that she nodded off in Herbology one time too many, and woke up mortified to the Professor giving her detention.

At lunch, she wolfed down some meat and bread, and then fell unconscious into sweet, sweet slumber...

Sirius watched Larka intensely from the other side of the table, eyes a darker gray than usual, and mouth thinned into a line. He was nearly silent throughout the day. James and Remus were watching him warily, fearing that he would explode sometime.

"What a stupid bird," he said to nobody in particular. "Astonishing stupidity."

Remus couldn't help but give a small, sarcastic smile. "Stupid indeed, Sirius, for standing up to you."

Sirius growled like a bear, "Not that, Moony, stop it. You of all people should see the flaw in her designs—she thinks that her friend is pretty—and she is—but this bird then continues to think that because her friend is pretty, I will of course fall in love with her. What is this? A picture book for a three-year-old? Nothing happens to beauty alone."

"Yes, Sirius," Remus softened his tone. He had never seen Sirius so philosophical before, and found himself agreeing actually, with the usually flamboyant man. "But what do you love, then?"

Sirius ignored his question conveniently.

_I have to do something._

—

Larka tiredly walked across the Hogwarts grounds, hoping that nobody saw her making her way towards detention.

Professor Johnson was waiting for her, tapping his foot impatiently, and once he saw her, pointed to a pile of young sprouts of some herb. "When I come back in", he looked at the sky, "two hours or so, I expect these buds all planted properly here." He walked away as quickly and gloomily as Larka had come.

Larka looked at the pile of malignant Dracoblooms, coiled her sleeves up and took a large stick on the ground to dig a hole.

A ruffling came behind her, and she shot up, turning around, wiping her dirt-covered hands on her robe, and froze when she saw a large, shaggy black wolf sitting on the grass. The wolf reached almost a meter at the shoulders, was raven black, had light almond shaped gray eyes. It wagged its tail when it saw she noticed him, impossibly pleased with itself*.

It was then she realized that it was a dog, and probably a stray.

She slowly raised her hands from her robe, kneeled on the grass, and held out a hand for the dog to sniff. The dog's erect ears flicked, and it came forward, licked her hand and made a surprisingly cat-like purr when Larka scratched it behind the ears. She giggled a little, the first sound of laughter she produced in days, and wrapped her arms around its neck, whispering in its ears, "You lovable thing! I wonder how you came here. Are students even allowed to bring a dog as a pet**?"

After a moment, she released its neck to continue digging, ignoring the small whimper it gave, making it sound like an awfully spoilt child.

Suddenly a pair of paws appeared and dug for her. Larka almost laughed out loud, "You silly dog! There isn't a bone buried here!" but didn't stop him. Instead, she took a sprout with the hem of her robe, knowing it would be painful to touch the plant, able to burn much stronger things than flesh when disturbed, and stuck it inside a hole she dug earlier.

It was an hour later when they finished, the dog digging at a much faster pace than she could have with her stick.

Larka sat on the ground, petting the dog that lay next to her, its head rested on its paws and eyes closed. "You must be half wolf," Larka decided, "You've the size. But just exactly how just a temperate and eager to please dog like you would get lost is a wonder!"

Larka turned around to lie down and watch the dark blue sky; watching the stars appear and the moon rise, she sighed, in peaceful contentment. "You know, I know that I shouldn't really be this angry and resentful."*** Somehow, that seemed to interest the dog, licking her hand to go on. She looked at the dog sleepily, combing his long black hair with her hands.

"He was right—I mean, that was why I got so mad, I suppose. He was right in that he doesn't actually have to fall in love with Novia—of course I know that. It's probably a good thing for her in the long run anyway. A handsome and well-liked guy like him so easily falls in love with a pretty girl, and when bored, so easily falls out of love. Not that there's anything fundamentally wrong with that, it's just—it's just."

She sighed heavily.

"I don't really know, dog, but sometimes I feel like he's looking for love just as hard as we are—if not more so. It makes me feel so shallow, that I had expected a glossed-over fairy tale to occur simply because I willed it. I think, secretly, that I was actually right, before I felt like he let down my image of him—I think that his confidence comes from a shyness and melancholy that roots deep within him, and this discovery makes me unable to face him."

The dog trembled under her hands, and she thought maybe she pulled through some tangle in its fur. It looked up at her, and in the fading light she could see the liquid clarity in his eyes, as if he was uttering some profound declaration.

Not that, you know, dogs made declarations.

She fell asleep under his clear gaze, and when she regained consciousness, it was already morning.

"I wonder if Professor Johnson came by to check on the Dracoblooms, or if he just forgot he had a student in detention." She muttered to the air, for the dog was gone. To be frank, she was a little disappointed to not see the dog, for she had become somewhat attached to it, almost like a comrade in arms.

_Woof._

Larka turned around, and a smile bloomed on her face. The dog was there, bowing to her—a sign that it wanted to play—and was rumbling gently. She felt a calmness wash over her. Larka never had anyone to wait up for her before, and the sloppy smile on its face was so endearing. "Thanks, Moddey old boy; that was probably the most enjoyable detention that anybody went through. I have to run back now, but hope I see you around!"

She petted the dog one last time, and ran up to the castle, dusting dew off of her hair and grass off her robe.

—

"Had a good time, Padfoot?" James clapped Sirius's back teasingly, his voice suggesting.

Sirius played innocent as he shook his head in a dog-like way, sending dewdrops every way, causing the other three to back away. "What? I was out for a walk."

Remus nodded seriously, "And took your own sweet time too... all night!"

Sirius blushed, a deed he wasn't likely to do, and said in a proud voice, "I didn't do anything disreputable, if that's what you mean."

James snorted, "You _are_ disreputable, dearest Sirius!"

"What is reputable but the shadow of a tree?"

"So philosophical this morning," Remus approvingly said, "Hopefully you didn't hit your head—you seem to do things harder than anybody, including hurting yourself."

Sirius suddenly remembered Larka last night.

Her words shook him, and he seemed to have looked at her for the first time. She was smiling, lips stretched out so thinly that they were but a line of softness. Her eyebrows were gently sloped over her eyes, framed by upwards lashes. Her eyes were curved and her gaze was tender and vibrant, and seemed to envelope the entirety of him.

He did not see any of this before.

He had felt that she understood him, knew him inside out, and somehow, he felt because of that, he also knew her in the same, intimate way. It was as if she had touched some secret corner of his being, and he had reached out to hers. He wasn't sure what this feeling was, and only knew that in this age of teenage logic and confusion, he suddenly knew very clearly what he wanted.

And when Sirius Black figured out what he wanted, he went to get it.

* * *

* For all his originality and genius in pranking and the general art of making others miserable, Sirius was not terribly imaginative when it came to, well, reversing misery. If he thought it would have helped to release his bundled brilliance and boundless energy in a well-timed prank, he would have put a Boggart's Love Potion™ in the Slytherin's morning milk. (Boggart's Love Potion™ was different from the illegal love potions, in that it made one declare love to one's most feared person.) This idea amused him so much, in fact, that he did it anyway, although not as a tribute to Larka.

** Dogs were indeed allowed as pets, although few students in the history of Hogwarts chose to have a dog, giving rise to the misconception that they were not magical creatures and therefore banned. This was actually one of the more practical thoughts that occurred to Larka. The other practical concern of stray rabies escaped her altogether.

*** Larka's family actually had a history of confiding in animals. It was a well-known and little-understood Tradition of the Roxburgh family ever after Sir Walter Scott Roxburgh of Scotland confided in a faerie lion (as was on the family crest) and got unexpected results. The lion in question was actually a Kneazle, but this story might appear later.


	11. Art of Cauterization

**Chapter 10**

**Art of Cauterization**

The storm had passed, it seemed. Novia had regained much of her typical exuberance, although still showing a clear sadness when in private, but these things left their marks. To get up where she had fallen was all Larka could wish for Novia to do. The three went on with their usual routines, and the day passed monotonously compared to the agitation not so very long ago.

Slight shifts to something in the sight occurred, but nobody was sure what had changed. Novia talked to Larka less, and Larka no longer bared her soul to Novia, and most of all Kelso was bewildered by all the attention bestowed on her.

It was this, however, that allowed Larka to remain behind unnoticed as they were walking through an empty corridor, as she was attacked by a dark unkempt mass of fur. She caught the baluster and her balance with one hand, and the other naturally covered up any strangled noise she made. After a second's alarm, she was pleasantly surprised to find the wolf-dog by her side, its tail wagging in a blur.

"Oh Moddey," she named him on a moment's whim*, "Boy, you're not really allowed inside, now are you?" She unconsciously talked in a baby-voice that most people fell into when talking to animals, "Let's go for a walk, boy."

She led him—or rather, he led her, as he seemed sure enough of where he was going and she lost her sense of directions.

It was only when they stopped that she realized he had led her not to the grounds, but to the library. She tried to move the dog, but it sat firmly in front of the entrance. She sighed, "All right, the library it is then—but only for a minute, and don't you get any ideas about coming inside anymore!"

She headed inside. This was the first time this year that she walked inside the library without an appointment with Remus the Tutor. The dog had slinked off at some point, and she picked up a thin book from the table where Remus kept his readings, and flipped open the first page of _Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border_.

"Larka, oh Larka, you busy?"

The familiar if uncertain voice of Sirius broke Larka out of her concentration. He had, of course, taken the liberty to sit himself down next to her before she made any response. If any amount of gold would have kept him away, Larka would have paid it gladly. She wished nothing more than to avoid Sirius until perhaps both of them developed a forgetful memory out of old age.

"What, what is it?"

Sirius cringed inwardly as if her artificially neutral tone was caustic, but gathered his finest smile and said, "Larka, if you don't start talking again I might have to write another sonnet for it."

"Talk about what?"

It seemed like Larka had mastered the spirit of Socrates and had cornered Sirius with simple questions. But the fact that she was responding was encouragement enough. "What you generally talk about—poetry, maybe. You usually have a lot to say about that with Remus**."

"You don't even like poetry."

"Nonsense, just because I don't appreciate poetry doesn't mean I don't appreciate you talking about poetry."

Larka eyed him warily.

Sirius eyed her back.

And it wasn't fair, Larka thought. It wasn't fair that his eyes held such a melancholic shape, dark and poetic, and it definitely wasn't fair that when he looked at her with such intensity she felt like she would burn. She faced the injustice of the world with silence.

Sirius rubbed his temple, a move familiar on Remus, and gave a soft sigh. "Blimey, Larka, you don't give in easily do you; I'll have you know I haven't been dancing around in malicious glee."

"What have you been doing then?"

Now that was a start! Sirius grinned again, "I suppose I have been thinking a lot—I have the story mostly figured out."

"What story?"

His eyes gleamed triumphantly. "Why—the epic love story of the Princess of Larks and her knight. Now all that remains is figuring out which dragon you need slain. No—" he silenced her when she began to speak, "Do not say another word, fair princess, this knight must go on his own journey to show his fortitude."

Then he left, just like that.

Larka was exceedingly confused and did the only thing reasonable to a confused person—go back to bed. She wasn't too certain, but it had almost seemed, for a moment, that Sirius was flirting with her. Why else would he go about calling her a princess and everything? She had seen him do this to too many girls, and she could now understand why all of them swooned and fell straight into his arms—it was a hard urge to resist. But precisely because she had seen him in action so often that she thought he couldn't have meant it—she remembered Sybil—a woman more like Lilith from Rosetti's _The House of Life_ was never born—and the blond Claudia***—who stepped straight out of a border ballad of faeries.

Larka was not airheaded enough to think that Sirius could be Tam Lin and she would rescue him from the Faerie Queene****.

"Penny for your thought?" Kelso walked up to her, smiling innocently.

Larka blushed and did not think it wise to talk about comparing herself to the maiden who on Halloween held onto love and hid a naked man. "You would waste a penny like that?"

"You look like you're bothered by something."

"Well—yes," Larka replied honestly, "The thing that has been bothering me for a while now."

Kelso rolled her eyes. "Not Sirius Black again."

"Well—yes," Larka repeated herself rather lamely, and thought that maybe she should get Kelso's opinion. "I've been told that—that I'm being too harsh on Sirius." A tiny little lie, which approximately was the truth anyway.

Kelso shrugged as she walked beside Larka. "Maybe you are," then as if to prove a point, she shrugged carelessly again, "I don't know."

"Hm," Larka made a noncommittal noise. She hadn't expected much insight from Kelso.

Kelso's voice broke her thought again, "But I do think you're taking it a bit too seriously."

It took a second for Larka to register that. "You do?"

Kelso nodded with resolve, "Yeah. Even I know his reputation, and Novia was the one to let him worm into her life, what does it have to do with us?" She paused, as if hesitate to continue, but went on after a beat anyway, "I don't know why you're taking it so—so personally."

Larka trembled in astute realization: the only person that really saw Sirius's recent behavior as a big deal was herself.

Kelso tugged on her to keep walking. "Let's go see Novia, she had asked me to come find you."

So the two went back to the dormitory, and found Novia sitting cross legged on her bed, books spilling over her bed as she tried to catch up with the recent readings.

"Hey Novia, feeling better?"

Novia nodded to Kelso's question and looked at Larka. Larka then sheepishly said hi and sat down beside her.

"You haven't been talking with Black, have you?" Novia asked suddenly.

"No, of course not!" Larka was caught between the guilt of lying—well _technically_ she didn't really _talk_, he did most of that—and the hurt that the first thing Novia did was to interrogate her—they haven't really talked to each other for so long!

Novia shrugged, easing off her suspicion. "Just wanted to make sure. I wanted to get you to tell you both what had happened—I feel like both of you deserve to know what you've been so nicely comforting about."

Larka smiled happily, "It's just good to see you feeling okay again."

"And," Novia lowered her voice and picked at a seam on her quilt, "I wasn't ever, you know, _mad_ at _you_… I just didn't want to talk to anybody for a bit…"

Larka patted Novia's arm comfortingly.

"Anyway, that day, we—that is, them and I—went to Hogsmeade. James was complaining that it took too long to get there that way," here she turned to Larka, confused, "Is there another way to get there?"

"I don't think so."

"Good. So when we got there, James was at once off to search for Lily Evans, like usual, and Pettigrew tailed him like a mouse. Then it was Black, Remus and I who continued. They both waited outside when I went to buy some parchment. When I came out, they were in the middle of a conversation, and stopped when I came out. Remus was trying to get some reason inside Black again, as it seems, and I thought I heard a slip of my name, but did not think too much of it. Silly me. Black told me to follow him, and so I did..."

Kelso gasped, "Wait, he didn't... _do_... anything, did he?"

Larka's blood turned cold at her suggestion, equally from the prospect and that Kelso could think that Sirius would do something like that.

"No," Novia shook her head dejectedly, apparently not picking up on Kelso's insinuation as she was lost in her own grief again, "he didn't even try to kiss me! He just led me to a dark corner around the Three Broomsticks, and said, 'it'd really be for your best if you stop tagging wherever I go, Brooks. Spend some time with Larka, or what's-her-name, that girl that hangs around with you. Then I yelled why should he care for what I do, since I was angry, and told him that if he wanted to break up, at least he should be more tactful. And can you believe what he said?"

"What?" Larka asked with her heart sinking lower every second, as if filled with lead.

"He told me that we were never quite 'together' so he can't be breaking up! There's nothing to break!"

Larka fell silent. Kelso, however, turned her liquid eyes to Novia, and in a quiet, calm voice, she asked, "He never asked you to be his girlfriend formally? Did he give you any sort of promises?"

Novia stared at her fiercely. "Yes! Of course..." the glare subdued into a shameful look, "At least, it was minutely implied!"

Kelso looked at her almost pityingly, coming a long way from when she only looked at others with widened, quivering eyes. If Novia was in a more observant state, she would have proudly claimed it her influence. If Larka was less fidgety and distracted, she would have thought that the Sorting Hat was really quite right after all—the waters in the Gryffindor tower did promote courageous growth*****.

"Get some rest," Larka piped up. "Tomorrow's Sunday, we can go to the Quidditch match in the afternoon together if you want to get some air."

And that was decided as they both tucked Novia into bed.

* * *

* By 'whim' she really meant that she listed all the mythical dogs that she knew and choose the least intimidating-sounding name there.

** One of the things about Larka that made Sirius most uncomfortable, was the lurking inkling he had that Larka preferred Remus's company to his own. Not that, you know, Sirius would ever really compete with Remus—if fact, he would die for his friends and what was a bird anyway?—but the idea of losing without competition was uncomfortable nonetheless, although he couldn't really say why. Then again, he couldn't say why he did most of the things he did nowadays anyway.

*** Claudia had an abundance of pale hair and indeed had one eighth of Veela blood in her. It did not help her, however, when Sirius got bored of her grooming her hair, her favorite and perhaps only pastime. Sybil was the sultry temptress, a femme fatale who was three years Sirius's senior, making her a Sixth Year when he was in his Third. The details of how Sirius Black got the most prized girl of the Sixth Year to date _him_ (who had yet finished his growth spurt), were vague at best. Inside sources told of him asking her to model nude for a reinstallation of _Lady Lilith_, a famed painting that the Blacks owned.

**** A poetically just, if premature, thought for Larka. Sirius had a bad habit of morphing into a dog in his sleep, the first few weeks of becoming an Animagus—fitting to the ballad where Tam Lin morphed into many things in quick succession.

***** Gryffindor waters do no such thing—they share the same plumbing system as the rest of the castle. Kelso had always been empathetically-inclined; it was just that prior to this she had no occasion to display such empathy.


	12. Save the Knight

**Chapter 11**

**Save the Knight**

The next day was gray and dimmed, a bit misty and not at all good for Quidditch or going out of doors. Despite a good number of people dawdling away inside the castle due to the gloomy weather, the Quiddtich grounds were still alive. There was an abundance of movement and people that the effect was dizzying. It was strangely electrifying to see so many people bustling about.

"Ravenclaw against Gryffindor!" the declarer shouted in the amplifier enthusiastically, and as if it was a signal, the two houses waved flags and cheered their teams on. Larka, Novia, and Kelso, cheered them on just as ardently as anyone else, watching the match with bright-eyed energy.

"The Ravenclaws are leading twenty to ten! Valens to Thomas, good pass Ravenclaws! Oh, Black just hit a Bludger away from Chaser Potter and it flies towards the Ravenclaw Keeper! Nice save Baker!"

It was a closely fought battle, with the two houses scoring close to each other – the house that catches the Snitch would win. A flash of yellow appeared, but it was not the Snitch. Instead, it was lightning, and even those who didn't notice the light heard the loud crack of thunder not long after. A storm was coming. Some of the student hurried to get inside the castle, but most kept their seats, ignoring the small, prickling raindrops.

"Do something!" Novia shouted to Larka, who didn't seem to have heard as she saw James dive in rapidly, with the Ravenclaw Chaser close behind him. Novia grunted and took her wand out, trying to remember a charm that would create a cover of some sort: Charms was Larka's strong department, not hers.

The rain was everywhere, in his eyes, in his robes, in the air, making it challenging to see the Snitch, but Emil Lowell the Gryffindor Seeker had seen trickier weathers out practicing. He narrowed his eyes and focused on the Snitch, not seeing the black ball that came his way. Sirius saw it however, and plunged to the ground where Emil was with more force than recommended for safety, but since when did Sirius Black refrain from action because of danger? In a mere matter of seconds, Emil would have been hit brutally by the ball, but Sirius blocked it away with a forceful swing of his bat, sending it back to the Ravenclaw Seeker. The Seeker dodged it with an effective turn, but dropped behind a few yards, and Emil caught the Snitch.

"He caught it! Lowell caught the Snitch! Gryffindor wins!"

In all the festivity, no one took heed of Sirius, who fell off his broom after he knocked the Bludger away. Normally, a little thing like this wouldn't bother Sirius much, but the velocity of the Bludger really did hammer him to the ground, and he couldn't quite move his leg.

Novia and Kelso ran to the Gryffindor common room with the rest of the house, all celebrating by crashing the team inside the mass, sweeping Emil up and away. Larka was heading off too until she catch a glimpse of Sirius lying on the wet grass, his hair disorganized and without his usual elegance. He was waving to James to go in with the crowd.* She took one look at the cheering mass moving towards warmth and celebration, and then ran towards Sirius instead.

"Sirius?"

He opened his eyes at his name, surprised.

Larka was looking at him, scowling hard, knelt next him and asked him gently, "Is something broken?"

Sirius laughed feebly, and pointed to his ankle, shaking his head.

"Twisted?"

A nod.

Larka sighed, and pulled out her wand. She flicked it and muttered something, and the rain stopped beating on them, a small shield blocking the water, the air shimmering slightly with a hue of blue that was teasing on the eyes, disappearing if one tried to look for it.

"You're good at charms, Flitwick would be proud of that one." Sirius sounded lighthearted, as if he wasn't lying in a heap on the wet grass.

Larka ignored his compliment and simply told him matter-of-factly (avoiding his eye at the same time), "Put your arm around my shoulder and I'll get you to the hospital wing."

Sirius arched his brow and was about to suggest him using a healing spell on himself, but then thought better of it and just nodded. There was no good reason why a Sixth Year would know the advanced healing spells that he knew, and he preferred to not leave any clues as to Remus's furry little problem. He obediently put his arm around her neck in a surprisingly meek manner, even if he did breathe on her neck a little more heavily than he needed to.**

"Ready?" she asked and dragged him up at his nod. She almost toppled over with his additional weight—it was a wonder how someone who looked so lean could weigh so much. They made their way slowly and steadily towards the interiors of the castle.

An hour later, inside the hospital wing, Sirius was lying awake despite the drowsing medication that he took. James, Remus, and Peter had snuck back out after checking on him and bringing him a few chocolate frogs. He was now letting the frogs hop around for a bit, listening to them croak in the heavy silence before eating them.

The door crackled open a bit, and Sirius said to the unseen figure, "The first lesson they teach a ninja would be stealth."

The door stilled for a moment, then a plump figure appeared, and his hopes of it being Larka fall through his metaphorical roof. No matter, he was glad to have somebody conscious to talk to.

"Hi," she nervously began, "Oh, I'm Kelso Meadows, er, friend of Novia."

Sirius knew who this was—he had often seen her with Larak around the school. She was in her own reverie before he cleared his throat and brought her back to the world. He couldn't see her face properly, but he suspected that she was blushing—he had that effect on people. To his surprise, however, as she looked at him with nervous determination, she said in a low voice, "Please stay away."

Sirius first thought she was talking about Larka, then he remembered the girl he took to the Cheery Ball (or whatever it was called), and ultimately decided that Kelso here was probably talking about both of them. He thought he could compromise halfway, which was such an honor really, because he rarely compromised.

The door opened again, and Sirius thought he could make out a familiar form in the darkness.

Larka, who was furiously blushing, came closer. By the time Sirius could almost make out her face, he heard her murmur, "Kelso, please, let him be—he almost broke his leg securing that win for our House."

"So?" Kelso retorted, "He didn't actually break his leg, and I don't want to see him anywhere near you or Novia—he's just bad news." Kelso might have held an affection for Remus Lupin, but she had the good sense of knowing her place—her friends, however, seemed to need her to brave up and intervene.

Larka half agreed with her, but the sight of Sirius miserably lying on the bed with a cast made her heart melt into a helpless puddle of sympathy and a desire to comfort him. In the most forceful tone she used in her entire life so far, Larka replied, "I can judge that by myself. Why don't you go and see if Novia's still up?"

Kelso took one last disapproving look at her before she left. After she considerately closed the door after her, Larka turned back to Sirius and sat on the chair next to his bed.

He shifted in the bed and dragged his leg so that he can sit up. "Come," he beckoned, "Sit on the bed—we can't talk too loudly and you're too far away."

It was a blatant lie, but Larka did not call him out on it. Instead, she compliantly abandoned the chair and opted for the empty space on his bed. She suddenly felt strong hands on her shoulders, kneading gently. She stiffened and automatically moved away from him.

"Sorry," he muttered without a trace of apologetic emotion, "Thought you looked tired."

Larka smiled uneasily, awkward with the attention, and looked away. "No, I was just..."

"Tired," Sirius finished for her, grinning madly.

She chuckled, and relaxed. They stayed wordless for quite some time, both a little hesitate to break the warm, glowing silence between them.

Until Sirius could no longer keep his tongue. "So Larka, you came all this way without something to say?"

Larka smiled sheepishly. "I didn't want Kelso to bother you resting."

"Ah, coming here to save your knight from the Merciless Dame***."

"No such thing, and don't call Kelso names! She's wonderfully sweet! Staying dormant really makes you think of nasty thoughts!"

Sirius grinned at that, "Why—Larka, you know me so well! I was just lying here outlining our next prank!"

"Prank?" She asked in confusion.

"Yeah—the kind, you know, that we are known for."

"Well, I suppose," she had to develop some sort of opinion at this moment, "I suppose that they're amusing enough to think of."

"That's nothing compared to seeing it in action!"

"I wouldn't know," she admitted, "Besides, you might get in trouble."

"Trouble, darling, is just like air, _air_ to me!"

She did not like being called darling—or rather, the word itself touched something deep within her, something that she didn't know was there, but the way he said it made her cringe.

"Aren't you in the least intrigued? Can you mind rest without finding out the intricate ploy of mine? Does your heart not beat wildly at the thought of being privy to a grand scheme?"

"Yes Sirius, do tell me," she indulged him.

"It's actually not very grand at all, but grandeur is not required when it comes to hexing Snivellus."

"Sni—vellus…" She repeated uncertainly.

"Yes, the greasy, grimy, grisly Severus Snape of Slytherin. We named him Snivellus since he's always sneering and snivels when he is hexed, and the rest comes from his name."

"Yes, I got that much." What a bunch of silly pre-school boys. "What do you have against him anyway?"

"He's so very easy to frighten, and you should see his face when he sees us! Simply _beastly_."

That did not sound fun at all. "Sirius," Larka started uncertainly, "Surely he has offended you somehow? It—it seems…a little mean-spirited of you… Not that I think of you as mean-spirited, of course," she quickly added.

Sirius fell silent, and the glee fell off his face. He struggled between petulantly turning her out, and revealing something that he wasn't comfortable with bringing to surface. A look at her believing expression though, and he spoke, "You see, it's not quite as simple as that. He—he's not just another Slytherin— he's just like my family, boiling in their pure-blood mania, and I—I don't know, this is the only way of getting back at them, all of them, that I know of."

Larka would have liked to argue in favor of familial love, but she had heard the stories—everybody who had a place in the pureblood world knew of certain family legacies, and the Blacks were one of them. She would have liked to learn about his relationship with his parents and relatives and his time away from the shining castle of Hogwarts, but he seemed so ill at ease. She would have liked to say something inspiring about bravery and facing the world, but she was in no position to talk about vague, noble concepts like courage. She would have liked to perhaps pat his back soothingly, but he had put up an invisible barrier around him. She would have liked to say she was there, as if there was any comfort to that, but she couldn't find the voice to do so. She would have liked to fix him—except she didn't think she could, or that he needed it.

"Last time I went home for Christmas, we talked about legalizing Muggleborn-hunting with the Ministry at dinner," he laughed bitterly.

Because she was a pureblood, she knew of the things that he was talking about. Sirius knew that she knew as well, so she just nodded her head a little sadly. She wish she could be shocked and horrified instead, but one couldn't help but be caught up in those talks sometimes—perhaps not so severe and ghoulish.

"I was, of course," Sirius went one with her encouragement, "too old and wise to say anything I really believed in, so I agreed with them. You know how disgusted I felt with myself, Larka? I agreed with them. I was afraid for the whole summer, I was afraid at thirteen that I had all my life beaten out of me."

She wasn't sure how anyone could hate their family, but she felt like Sirius was justified in doing so.

"You think my best friend is James, right—well most people see it as that, and they're not wrong per se. I love James with the love I didn't give to my family, but Remus and I—" it took him a moment to find the words, "we are both here when everybody else leaves. We are the ones who prevent each other from allowing the world's despise to eat us up. It's—it's gotten better though. I think they've come to realize that there is no more hope for me. They still tried to wring some Slytherin into me back when I first started. My entire family is just a fraud. A plaster front of shrunken heads, platinum plated everything, dubious incest, and Bloody Marys too early in the morning. Behind it is just anxiety and nothingness."

Larka felt like she was going to throw up—she could imagine a small Sirius, eleven, with raven hair and pale, pale cheeks, engulfed by the large, wrinkled Sorting Hat, and on the verge of crying when the Hat put him into Gryffindor****. Her own anger at the Hat—anything else, everything else—fell into nothingness as they crumpled in comparison. Her heart was filled with a surging, consuming feeling that she could not explain, but she knew it was going to swallow her whole.

"Oh wow, I didn't mean for all that to come out," Sirius laughed uneasily with a surprising weakness to his voice. "I do love talking about myself."

Larka wanted to slap him for walling himself up again. "Run away," she blurted out.

"What?"

"No—I mean sorry," Larka regretted trying to interfere with his life.

"Don't be."

They lapsed into silence again. It took a while before Sirius could bring himself to say, "You know, I've thought about it myself."

"Then don't spend another minute worrying over the other Blacks—don't doubt and judge yourself. Run away, run to James, run to Peter—" _run to me_ "Run away and stay away," she said breathlessly.

Sirius's eyes sparkled, and Larka felt like for the first time in her life she had achieved something. "Now that I'm sixteen, I guess I can find James and see if he'd be able to take me in..."

A pause. Larka didn't ask why he hadn't done that already, and Sirius didn't tell her about the uncharacteristic insecurities that he held. Larka didn't offer her own place in good sense, and Sirius didn't think of that as even a remote possibility at the moment. Larka didn't talk about the heaviness she felt due to his woes, and Sirius didn't say that his woes were now less heavy with her there.

"So," Larka finally broke the existential crisis, "is there anything with the prank I can help?"

Sirius smiled at her, with a sort of tenderness that was new and frightening, "Oh Larka, I knew you would come around!"

He proceeded to tell her of his plan, and it was as if the conversation never took place, but both knew that something was different now.

* * *

* There were many tactics that Sirius employed to avoid post-Quidittch celebrations—at least avoiding them until most people had the decency to shower. While he shared victorious moods with the common folk, he rose above the plebian when it came to personal hygiene. This was unusual for a teenage boy, but quite expected for a young pureblood gentleman. Denying one's heritage had its limitations.

** Sirius knew the damsel in distress syndrome applied to male damsels and female saviors as well.

*** This is a corruption of Acrasia, the Beautiful Lady Without Mercy. Sirius was in a way complimenting Kelso without realizing it—despite being evil, the medieval witch Acrasia was beautiful, clever, and certainly had many lovers. Now Kelso did not wish for any of these, although she did occasionally glance at Remus in a loving manner. It took a whole Willful Potion (one that encouraged recklessness and restrained apprehension) for her to come here, but she knew what she must do for her friends, and she didn't care if it took a dozen Willful Potions to do what's right.

**** He would never admit to the actual tears that fell.


	13. Decision Time, Pumpkin

**Chapter 12**

**Decision Time, Pumpkin**

Larka wasn't sure if her life was heading somewhere she didn't like—or rather, she wasn't sure if she was turning into someone she didn't like. On one hand, she was more outgoing and was more assertive than she had ever been, but on the other hand, her sense of belonging grew less. She talked to more people, learned more about her classmates in the past few months than in the last few years, had more people to smile at when she went into the dining hall every meal, spoke more in class and even earned a few points—but did any of those things matter? Novia was still the core of her social thoughts, but she drifted from Novia more and more, turning to the Four Kings, who did not give her a sense of belonging—who belonged to royalty but those born into it? Each generation had its shining ranks—before James and Sirius came Lloyd Curtiss and Lucius Malfoy—but none of the old kings had so much capitalization in their names.

So who was she kidding when she agreed to be part of Sirius's prank? She might not care much for Snape, but she certainly felt a guilty squirming in her stomach when she had to actively hurt him. Where did Sirius's influence over her end, and where did her morality begin?

Sometimes during her musing, Novia and Kelso had sat down near her.

"Larka," Novia called out to her, snapping her fingers in front of her eyes to get her attention.

Yet when Larka did turn towards her, she feel silent. "What is it, Novia?" Larka asked puzzled.

Novia nervously shuffled, and Larka wondered when was the last time she saw Novia so timid? When did she and Novia switch roles? "Well, Larka, let me ask you this: would you object to stopping your tutoring sessions?"

"What?"

"I mean there's no real need to do it, right? McGonagall already said that you're on your game again. Besides, it's a rather large chunk of your time that you're spending needlessly suffering."

Larak's mind blanked out. What an odd choice of diction—suffer. However, thinking back, all of her interactions with Sirius and the gang have been quite covert—in fact, not many people in the entire school knew she had any sort of interaction with Sirius, otherwise she would have certainly gotten more hate mail and also invitations to dorm parties. She felt the need to clarify: "Well I wouldn't say I suffer for it, in fact, I kind of enjoy—"

"What I mean to say is," Novia interrupted her, "We would like you to spend more time in the Common Room…"

"What she mean to say is," And Kelso in turn picked up after Novia, drawing strength in knowing that she was helping her friend, "That you've been spending too much time with your 'popular' friends."

Larka really did not appreciate her use of air quotes, but she did admit to their valid point.

There would be a point when she had to address the drifting problem, how she was caught between Novia and Kelso, and Sirius, she knew. Just not quite so soon, and maybe less confrontational. Larka was not one to initiate confrontations, and tried her best to appease this one. She took a good look at Novia, and wished that she had a better story for her, one that would convince her once again of Sirius's merits. But these were two worlds: the Kings, and then her own people—her own friends.

She didn't like being pressed into a _choice_, but she supposed that Novia made her decision for her.

Although there was an unsettling, uncomfortable feeling in her stomach, she attributed it to an unnecessary guilt towards Sirius, whom she had just recently struck an understanding with. So she breezily said, "Sure, do you guys have a new board game in mind for the evening then?"

Good to her word, she sent an owl to Remus immediately, writing out an brisk but polite thank you note that outlined her improvement in the class and the impracticality of usurping his time any further. Novia stood over her shoulder and watched her handwriting get smaller and smaller. Both she and Kelso paying such close attention to her letter made Larka feel like she was seven again, and had to write an apologetic reflection under her father's eyes for breaking the house vase.

To be sure, the next morning, Larka looked away at exactly the moment that Sirius's eyes would have met hers. His wave was also lost, but that did matter—he didn't end up looking like a fool, for some girl near her waved back excitedly.

Mealtime was filled with a game of cat and mouse, as they sat down right by her. Only Peter seemed like he was about to greet her, but after confusedly noticing how the others ignored her, he shut his mouth and dived into eating. Larka was thankful for his observatory skills, but Sirius was being a child. He kept asking for her to pass the salt, and then put it just far enough to warrant asking her again. She felt a little silly, but still maintained her promise to Novia and Kelso, and ate her meal in relative silence.

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Sirius stretching, arms outwards and balancing the chair by its hind legs. It was a difficult and exemplar feat of willpower that kept her from turning to him and chiding him in worry. Of course, even without turning she could imagine what she would have saw—his hair would be falling just slightly into his eyes, and the shirt underneath his open robes would show just a sliver of toned stomach, his arms would fall back and his fingers would start to tap the wooden table just about—

_Tap, tap, tap._

—Now.

Larka did not spend a large portion of her time watching or thinking about Sirius, but he was such a memorable person that it was easy to have a vivid print of him in her mind. She, of course, was not still thinking about him; no, she was thinking about—those decorative pumpkins sure look, well, decorative.

Oh, Novia said something. "What?" she asked rather dumbly.

Novia gave her an impatient look, "I said, do you want to start the new Plague of Civilization game after classes?"

"No," she shook her head regrettably—she couldn't believe Novia's parents sent her the newly released game just yesterday, for she had been waiting for it for a long time. "It'd take too long. I've to go do astronomy up in the tower, remember? Let's do it tomorrow, I really want to play it."

James paused in his speech about something or other. "So you really don't need any help with classes, huh? Sure you can manage?" He seemed halfway curious and mildly disappointed.

Larka was startled at the break of their unanimous decision to play strangers, and Novia beat her to replying, "She's really smart; didn't even need it in the first place."

Novia was proud of herself—she was standing up for Larka! How dared Potter to question the one thing that Larka prized in herself—her good, grounded thinking and dedication to schoolwork!

Larka nodded at the assertion of her intelligence, but then quickly turned to Remus and said in what she hoped was an inoffensive and genuine voice, "Thank you though, I know it took a lot of time."

Remus, who hitherto was the only sympathetic audience of James's speech (about Lily again, no doubt), nodded at her, and said a quiet "Don't mention it."

Larka couldn't help but feel like he was being snarky.

They did not speak to each other again for the remainder of the meal. In fact, nobody spoke, and it was as if some great calamity had fallen upon them all.

—

"Potions next—don't need to go." James announced to nobody in particular as Larka and her girls left for class. They were the only remaining people in the halls now, and James felt exceptionally lethargic today.

"Indeed. Slughorn loves me anyway*," Sirius said as he fell back to his chair.

"So I guess I will pass the notes to you guys afterwards?" Remus asked as he folded his napkin neatly.

"Always can count on you, Moony," James flashed him a cheeky grin. "You, Wormtail? Going or staying?"

"I'll stay here—only one of us needs to go, right?"

"Yup, be seeing you, Moony," Sirius saluted Remus as he walked away.

"So," James then casually asked, "Why do you reckon Larka doesn't want to see us anymore?"

Sirius shrugged nonchalantly—in fact, Sirius was rarely this nonchalant about anything, including the growth periods for Dracobloom sprouts and the significance of curled ears on owls. "Her grades are up."

James's hazel eyes were particularly bright behind his glasses at the moment, "But that wasn't the point, well, not after a while. Aren't you—well, aren't you intrigued?"

"No, not really," and Sirius started putting food into his plate again, although he seemed to have no intention of eating them. He was determined to not talk of Larka, not think of Larka, and definitely not bring to mind that night in the ward where he thought they had reached some sort of clarity. If she was so eager to spring away, then let her.

"Maybe she's tired of us," Peter offered, not particularly caring. One Lily Evans taking the limelight was enough for him.

"Are you kidding?" Sirius choked out, "Who can ever get tired of the _us_? We're the Marauders, the eternal toast of the town!" That was a possibility that had never occurred to Sirius before, and while he thought it ludicrous, he couldn't help but develop a secret inkling of fear.

"Who knows, birds are so impossibly difficult. Like Evans, and why she _still_ refused to be impressed by me." James sighed, easing to sit back in his chair with his arms crossed behind his head.

"Dull people have a weird way of thinking," Peter explained.

"Watch your language, Wormtail," Sirius snapped before he could stop himself.

"What? I didn't curse!"

"You called her dull, and that," James patted Peter comfortingly, "is the most offensive thing that a person could bestow upon Sirius Black."

"Hmph," Sirius pushed away his plate of food and watched it clean itself. "On a second thought, I'll join Moony."

"Sirius!" Peter called out.

"Don't worry, leave him be. Now, do you think Lily is watching us with sidelong glances?"

Peter sighed. All these people were so knotted up in their heads.

* * *

* Slughorn did love Sirius, until Sirius was disowned. So a more correct statement might be 'Slughorn loved Black'. The particular affinities of Slughorn was not high on the priority list for Sirius, though later Larka lamented missing her chance of attending the elusive Slug Club party. It took a certain privilege of wealth and power, Larka understood, to not covet the exclusivity of wealth and power.


	14. A Clandestine Affair

**Chapter 13**

**A Clandestine Affair**

Wednesday night in the astronomy tower was the same every week. The occasional couple making out in some dark, dingy corner that Larka avoided, but mostly lots and lots of empty space. The tower was large enough for groups of people to never see each other, and when Larka first started out the class, she had been so timid that she hadn't been invited to the group stargazing. Afterwards, she sort of fell into the habit of coming here alone, with only a blanket and a basket of comfort food*. If somebody saw her right now, they might have thought she was mulling over some break up.

The darkness was very welcoming, and she lied there completely at home. Even in the dorms, even with Novia and Kelso, there was a constant sense of being around people who were looking and judging. Here though, utterly alone and charting down the movements of tiny flecks of light in the sky, Larka didn't care if her posture was unseemly or if her skirt creased too much.

Something black and large was approaching her, coming to her waist in height.

"Moddey?" Larka whispered, hoping it wasn't a baby troll or something equally ridiculous. The astronomy tower at night always seemed to hold the most old-magic to her, and in its cloaking darkness, she wouldn't be surprised if the hellhound Moddey Dhoo came and dragged her to hell.

She was soon surprised—not by Moddey Dhoo, but rather Sirius. He came around the corner, strolling unceremoniously, without the ever-constant company of his friends. He hovered over Larka, his dark gray eyes piercing into her brown ones. Larka was very self-conscious and tried to convince herself that it had nothing to do with wanting to present herself prettily for this boy here. No, it was just out of the human need to look pretty all the time of course, and she wasn't pretty with her legs kicking the air, her hair pulled back hastily into a ponytail, and her hand halfway through a large bag of pre-shelled peanuts (possibly with crumbles still around her mouth).

She was very engrossed in pondering how to wipe her mouth without being obvious about it, when he sat down by her and asked, "Did I do something that, er, irritated you?"

She was surprised to say the least, by his admission of needing other people's approval, and thought hopelessly that with those eyes looking at her, she had no idea what he was talking about. "Uh," she managed to get out, as she speechlessly admired those gray eyes that seemed to hold all the starlight despite very few peering through the clouds.

"It's an earnest question," he pushed.

"No, I mean—right, no, why would you think that?"

"Wild guesses." He smiled wryly, "And that general awkwardness during lunch."

"Oh," her mind finally started up as she remembered the events of the day, "Of course. That is," she was quick to clarify, "It wasn't you."

Sirius chuckled, "My, Larka, you sound like you're dumping my arse."

"Oh," she felt her cheeks burn and thanked the darkness. Her mouth went dry all of a sudden and she lost her tongue again.

"Very eloquent tonight, I see."

"Well," she could hardly take a snub, "I didn't exactly expect anybody to find me, and I was all holed up and snug in my deterioration into a heap of gluttony." She waved her other hand, still holding a half-eaten piece of pie. (Peanuts and pumpkin pie could be found in a happy if eccentric marriage, she found.)

"I can see that."

"Well," she cleared her throat, "Something I can do for you?"

"Tell me why you didn't acknowledge m—us at lunch? And while you're at it, maybe say why you've stopped the tutoring sessions?"

"Oh, right." She felt like a fool. "That. That's simple: my grades are high enough that I needn't to bother Remus anymore." She could be convinced of the truth in that.

"Nonsense," he scoffed, "We all know that you didn't need the tutoring past the second month. Don't even try to make it sound like anything but a social hanging out**."

He was right and he knew it. Larka hated when that happened. "Fine, I stopped because Novia and Kelso asked me to. They wanted me to spend more time with them and less with you guys; perfectly reasonable request from a friend who hasn't seen me that much lately."

"The first part, yes, but spending time with them and us isn't conflicting."

"You have a time-turner on your hand? Or can split me into two? At least I'd be awfully skinny then."

"Stop the snarky comments, I mean just all of us having a grand time together."

"Yes, a grand time," she couldn't help it, although she really tried to stop her sarcasm, "You and Novia kinda had it going before you broke her heart."

"She's not _still_ sour about it?" He was genuinely surprised.

"Sirius, even if she has moved on, it's not like she would be all peaches and cream towards you."

"And why not? Josephine and Carol both seem happy enough to see me here and there, we have friendly chatter."

"That's because they still hold some sort of delusion that you might go back to them," she snapped.

"So you're just avoiding us because of Novia?"

"Sirius," she was tired all of a sudden, "She's my best friend. Don't get me wrong, I really enjoyed the sessions—or 'hanging out' as you put it, but she's my oldest and best friend. Friendship is compromises too, and sometimes I have to give up certain things for her."

"So—we're like—oh what were their names—we're like Romeo and Juliet***!"

"What?"

"They're lovers from this Muggle guy that Remus talks about sometimes, supposedly really iconic in the Muggle world. Anyway, the point is, they couldn't be together because of this bleeding war between their families, and so they killed themselves."

Larka wasn't sure if she should blush at the idea of them being lovers, or shake in horror at the idea of suicide. "But we're, we're nothing like them!"

"Of course," Sirius grinned again, his teeth flashing white, "We wouldn't ever kill ourselves, what a loony thing to do!"

This time, Larka was sure what to do. She blushed with the intensity of a thousand fiery suns, and wondered why the darkness did not lift from her glow.

Sirius shifted closer, "We should just run away together, me from the venerable House of Black, and you from the shackles of friendship."

"Don't be silly," she croaked out.

He was so close that when he talked, his breath tickled her cheeks. At the close proximity though, he did not give a witty comment, or flash a melting smile, or charmingly lift her chin with a finger. No, if Larka could hear his heartbeat, she would have found his thundering pulse to be close to her own.

He shifted even closer, by just an inch, but oh what an inch it was! An inch lowered was an inch more to her nose, her lips, and Larka instinctively held her breathe…

... And looked down.

Sirius straightened and moved back. He gave a little sigh, and said in a barely audible whisper, "Alright then."

Larka felt like she had messed something up, but also felt like she had done something right, something she should be proud of—except she only felt a growing sense of loss in her. So to cover it up, she asked, "Do you come to watch the stars often?"

"No," Sirius chuckled, "I came here to watch you."

"Oh," her lightheadedness was returning.

"Tell me about the stars," and he saved her gallantly.

So she continued to tell him everything she knew, everything she learned, and made up quite a few facts when she forgot certain parts. They passed the night in talk about vague constellations, and neither brought up what had almost happened.

When she woke up the next morning, covered in blankets, she discovered that she was alone, and something in her chest gave a funny plop, like there was a vicious whirlpool that was dragging everything down.

Larka knew then that she was in trouble.

* * *

* She had a habit of eating that might have been deemed unhealthy, but the greatest release that Larka found in life (until this point in her story, at least) was in breaking the regime of a healthy diet. She insisted that it gave one a great satisfaction.

** This was a phrase that Sirius picked up from an American, and he loved the image of hanging somebody up so that they couldn't escape as he delivered a monologue about the subtleties of verbena soap. He had used it in most unsuitable situations ever since.

*** One of Sirius's worst habits was picking up phrases and names and flinging them about without a second thought. Sometimes it worked, but more often than not it caused Larka a moment's hesitation as she either tried to figure it out, or hopelessly admit that she would never grasp his wicked mind.


	15. One Good Turn Deserves Another

**Chapter 14**

**One Good Turn Deserves Another**

Larak did not see Sirius again for quite some time.

Which was to say, she saw naught of him for a whole of three days. She had gotten into the spoilt habit of avoiding him, and so when he no longer appeared in front of her, across the hall, loitering in the Common Room—well, it was safe to say that Larka felt lost. It had been easy—easier—to not think of him when he was there. She felt sick of herself, but she must admit, his hurt, his effort validated her purpose, justified her feelings. And when he started avoiding her—Larka wasn't sure if he was, or simply yielded to her wishes of being left alone, but she thought fairly that he wasn't one to back down if he didn't see it fit— when he avoided her, that was when she became listless and had panic attacks at the same time.

She couldn't handle this anymore. She knew what she felt: she recognized it from all the stories, all the movies. It was not enough to say she was fond of him, and too prudish to say she esteemed him greatly, she just couldn't stop thinking about him, and when she did, she had a small, secret smile.

The last straw that broke the camel's back was the next day, when she was walking towards the Herbology greenhouse to do some research for her paper.

As she was walking, there was an entourage of boys coming from the opposite direction, presumably from behind the greenhouse, where the more hormone-driven population had claimed it. These boys created a semi-circle and all Larka could see was the princess that they surrounded. The woman had long, flowing hair plaited on the top of her head in painstaking fishtails. She was beaming so much that Larka thought she had gold leaves melted into her skin. Her lips were pink and heavy, as if swollen from biting, the kind of lips that went with bed hair.

Larka stopped in her tracks and nodded to one of the boys. He was in one of her classes, and blushed shamefully as he lowered his head. As they came closer, Larka trembled.

There was another person in the center of this entourage—the boy who gave this princess her reason to lift her head high—and it was Siruis.

She watched them go by. Sirius had either not seen her or ignored her. The girl had cast her a long glance, where her smug eyes looked at her as if from ten thousand miles away. Her large, heavy-lidded eyes were magical as any Ollivanders wand, but Larka thought that her nose was perhaps a bit too thinly built.

Larka remained motionless for a while after the lot of them had disappeared, and for a long time forgot why she was on the grounds to begin with. After she regained her wits, she walked over to the greenhouse, much like a sailor who hadn't been on land for months. She thought perhaps she read a little too much into just a short walk—after all, Sirius walked every day, and so what if he had some company? But the girl's proud and deriding look… Well, even if Sirius has meant nothing, the girl certainly wanted it to mean something, and soon enough something will appear—she had implied that it was inevitable, with her look.

She was beautiful too, in a way different from Novia, far more beautiful than Larka, but… But for once in her life, Larka felt like she wanted something, and was determined to at least try.

And let nobody stop her, be it Novia, or the princess who will soon be irrelevant.

—

"Padfoot!"

Sirius woke with a thudding headache and looked at James with weary eyes. "Did the shell of the earth burst open?"

James, bright-eyed and glowing, with even more vigor than usual (if that was possible), went on without paying attention to Sirius's bad mood, "Guess what?"

"I ventured my guess already."

"Don't be daft, a real guess!"

"Uh?"

"Oh never mind, you would never be able to guess, it's so incredible, I can't really believe it much myself, but I ran the events by Remus and had him conjure up a spell to make sure that I wasn't dreaming, which actually, would explain quite a lot of things, but the thing is, I got a date with Lily!"

Sirius was groaning through what he thought was just another of those silly and long James Potter speeches when—"Wait, Lily as in Lily Evans? The redhead? Of Gryffindor? Whom you've been trying to get laid with for—oh let's say three years now?"

James smacked him still in good-humored, "Don't say it like that! But yes, that Lily, now do you see why the earth burst open?"

"Yes, I do," Sirius admitted, "I do James, in fact this is probably somewhat larger than just the earth bursting. So what did you do, finally buy some illegal love potion?"

"No you arsehole!" Here James blushed a little uncharacteristically, "I just, well, I just apologized…"

Sirius snorted, "For what?"

"Something about… being an immature child who hides behind conceit and hotheadedness…and that I know she doesn't need my protecting but bullying the Slytherins was all that I knew how to do… and then ask if she thought she wouldn't spend some time with me so that I might better myself because, well," he was aberrantly sheepish*, "I always tried my best for her…"

"Hm, and it worked." Sirius cocked an eyebrow. That was a surprisingly sensitive speech coming from James actually, who, although quite a bright wizard, was not the sharpest concerning the female kind. "And who taught you that?"

James smiled sheepishly, "Larka.**"

Sirius gave him a strange look that James didn't quite understand. Before he could ask Sirius though, Remus had closed his book and spoke up, "Finally, you realize that the hearts of the feminine gender is an ever re-sprawling web that could only be understood by other females."

As James retorted with a happy glow, Sirius slipped away.

He didn't like that he was the last one to know Larka's whereabouts and doings now. Although, when he thought more about it, he realized that he never had much to do with her to begin with. Remus had been the one that she reached out to, and James was the one that she helped out—he was just the one that she avoided and threw aside when her friend refused to let go of a silly grudge. He wished that she valued him a bit more. Everything was so confusing, he didn't understand anything about himself anymore—but he wanted her to understand him, for to understand him was to love him, he thought.

Sulking did not become him—normally a girl would not affect him so: if one rejected him, which was rare, he would cast it off like a bit of dust off his jacket. But for once in his life, he felt like there was something that he wanted, and he wanted it so much that he was afraid to want it, afraid to try to get it. He gloomily walked through the halls and headed to the Quidditch field: it would do him some good to blow off some steam with some bludgeoning.

And suddenly, he saw the source of his consternation.

There was Larka, holding a flask of something eerily red. He started to walk towards her, his feet uncontrolled by his mind. Yet when she noticed him, her reaction was not to meet him halfway, but instead she turned away—away—with a bright, friendly smile towards Snape.

He made a great show of sauntering slowly towards the two of them, expecting for Snape to get the hint and scamper away. He would demand an explanation out of Larka, for surely it was not too much to expect that she regarded him fondly—at least, more fondly than she did Snape. However, even though Snape's eyes flicked to his approaching figure quite a number of times, Larka was successful in keeping him locked in conversation and the two of them remained in the middle of the hallway.

Sirius was fuming, and he figured that even the ground beneath his feet trembled in cold despair. He had a clear shot of Snape if he just cast—but no, he wouldn't get Larka in trouble like this.

When he almost reached them, he could hear Larka suddenly frantically saying, "Thanks Severus, I just got it—I overlooked a detail, how silly of me, forgetting the shell powder of streelers!"

"Happens all the time," Snape said composedly and quickly disappeared.

Sirius stood there, determined to not talk, glowering. His forehead was glumly set, and his eyes were ablaze with a fervent light that should have scared Larka.

She seemed to be anticipating his anger though, and looked like a child caught in the middle of some wrongful act. She first found the marble floor to be extremely fascinating, then she examined the walls, her hands, his robe—everywhere but his eyes.

As she fiddled with her sleeve, she sheepishly said, "I'm sorry Sirius, but—I just couldn't do it, I'm so sorry, I know I promised, but I can't, it's not in me to pull pranks, I mean, it's not that I disapprove of it per se, but doing them and thinking about them seem to take different levels of courage…" At some point she looked up to make eye contact and lost all ability to speak.

For Sirius was—for a lack of better word—bewildered. It had taken him a while to fathom that she was apologizing for the prank that she had agreed to. Why, that seemed to be so very long ago, and Sirius had all but forgotten it. In fact, he had no idea that it had burdened her mind so, and felt a twinge of guilt arise from this realization. Beyond that though, he was mostly just pleased. A little smug, if you will, but a harmless kind of smugness. It made his heart melt a little to think that every word in every conversation between them held its weight in Larka's mind. Usually he talked so much that even Remus lost track of the stuff that he came up with.

All of a sudden, he felt like Larka did indeed understand him, and his earlier frustration seemed rather silly. So did the whole avoiding her thing. And pretending that nothing bothered him. And leading Rosemary on yesterday. Okay, so yes, he did quite a few things wrong lately, but it wasn't too late to mend them.

Well, perhaps time enough for one more silly thought that sieged his mind every now and then.

"So," he took a tentative step towards her, closing the distance between them to a degree that was pushing the platonic boundary. "Tell me, what do you think of Remus? That is, do you like him?"

The question was so out of the blue for Larka that she momentarily forgot her nervousness and said in a heap of broken sentences, "What? Remus? Well, I do like him, of course I—oh, I mean, I see, uh, well I suppose that I should like him, he's uh, he's very, well— but I don't think of him that way."

"Well in that case," Sirius tossed that thought forever out of his head, and blithely stepped even closer. His heart was beating quicker than he thought it should, and he wasn't sure if this was the moment to kiss her, despite the number of times he had done something similar. He bent his head down again, and Larka looked like she was about to faint, half with anticipation and half from anxiety.

He decided that a proper, thorough kiss would dissolve any anxiety, so he proceeded to go through with that plan.

As he closed in, Larka wondered if there had been a quick teeth-cleaning spell invented yet for such occasions—those kisses that were so unanticipated that one did not brush beforehand, and so important that clean teeth were of severest magnitude.

Quickly, however, thought left her, as there were _teeth_ and oh, a _tongue_ and soon it was wet and slick and should have been very gross but in fact very euphoric.

This was not Larka's first kiss, she would like for everybody to know. She had her first kiss with Frank Longbottom, actually, when she had stumbled upon a spin-the-bottle back in second year. Both of them were so shy and hesitant that somebody had took it upon themself to send their heads crashing into one other. Her teeth hurt for a good while as she sat and shriveled up in mortification. There was Richard Windor third year as well, but it was an awkward goodnight kiss because he felt it was expected at the end of a date. He had asked out Lily the day afterwards, though, so that was that. In any case, Larka could say with comfort that she had experience in kissing, albeit chaste pecks of kisses, but she didn't think the eating-one-another's-face-off kind of kissing was enjoyable anyhow. It always seemed like so much work and so embarrassing.

Those words not be further from her mind, though, as Sirius ate her face.

His teeth nibbled at her lower lips and because she was unsure as to what to do, her lips parted instinctively and his tongue flicked in. Then her entire mouth was warm and invaded and filled with Sirius and breathing became completely optional.

"Nose, Larka, you have a _nose_," he breathed against her, a bit hoarse and voice deeper than usual.

Of course she had a nose, Larka thought, irate at the short gaps of contact.

His tongue did wonderful aerobics inside her mouth, and twirled and thrust. There was all this change and angles and _sweet magical Baba Yaga_ no wonder people did this all the time. Larka began mimicking Sirius's movements, and although their teeth brushed when she tried tilting her head, the noises of pleasure rumbling out of Sirius was more than enough encouragement for her learning. She tried to curl her tongue along his teeth, the cavern of his mouth, sucked a little, and oh _goodness Merlin_ that was perfect, oh so _brilliant_.

So when she started to see a brilliant light from lack of air, Sirius pulled back and she finally realized that her ribcage was also burning and her lungs were about to burst.

"_Nose_," he said again, sounding as lightheaded as she felt, "Breathe through you nose."

Oh, that made sense, she thought.

So they tried again, and this time her ribcage and lungs stayed obedient.

It was ten minutes later that they broke apart again: a good ten minutes that lasted ten centuries and ten seconds at the same time. It was a good kiss. Hell, it was a grand kiss, but her mind was scattered and she couldn't think of any words to say.

Neither could he, apparently, because he chose to just continue looking at her brilliantly flushed face.

Larka became increasing certain that she was dreaming, staring at Sirius with the impossibly large grin. It was all happening so quickly and so _easily_ that it couldn't be happening. "Say something?" she pleaded, very much out of her element.

Sirius chuckled, "I've nothing to say officially."

A small laugh escaped Larka, as the absurdity of his response dawned on her, "Officially? What about off the records?"

"Oh there are some things that probably are best left unsaid, otherwise I'd embarrass myself, and it sounds rather childish too."

"Huh? What things?" She could not fathom him for her life, maybe because of how lightheaded she was at the moment.

"They're technicalities anyway, stuff like, oh, I love you, I'll love you always."

* * *

* James was actually adorably sheepish when he admitted to Lily that he always tried his best for her, as misguided as his attempts were. Not that Lily would be caught alive thinking that James was adorable.

** Larka had cornered James coming out of the loo—he was immensely surprised and incredibly delighted to see her so wicked. She had yanked him away and for a second James thought that Larka was secretly infatuated with him (and his hair) and oh Merlin Sirius was going to kill him. But then she started talking and all he could think was how very like Minerva McGonagall she was, so he paid attention and _learned_.

* * *

A/N: A bit of fluff for the holidays. Happy turkey day.


	16. Show Your Hand

**Chapter 15**

**Show Your Hand**

Larka was too bewildered to do anything but stare after the—well, it _was_ that a declaration of love, right? She hadn't misheard his words, or misunderstood any parts, or misinterpreted his tone? She thought she didn't, although she wasn't sure if it was grammatically correct.

Sirius didn't mind her silence, but instead just reached out for her hand, "So here's the part where usually hand-holding goes, if you don't object."

Larka took his hand, but her arm felt strangely detached, and everything around her carried a surreal quality. The colors were brighter, she could hear birds singing although they were inside, and the air seemed to sparkle despite a distinct lack of sunshine. She wasn't sure if she was getting barmy or just was stuck in a beautiful dream. Whatever it was, she decided that she wanted to stay in it the moment her hand touched Sirius's.

His hands were just as she always imagined, large and warm and the base of his fingers were a little rough and the callouses rubbed against her skin but the center of his palm was soft and oh so warm and all she wanted to do was curl her fingers around his hand and maybe if her entire person could fit inside his palm then she could stay there forever and ever and ever and ever—

"Lunch break ended ten minutes ago. Should I see you at dinner?" Sirius asked, breaking Larka out of her reverie. Understandably, Larka was not the best thinker during a crisis, and this definitely constituted as a crisis.

"Oh." She was late for class. Never had such a distressing thought seemed so far-off and feeble before. "Dinner—_oh_." Now she saw why he asked her about dinner. The turn of events was so bizarre that she had forgotten about all the back and forth of her avoiding him and the him avoiding her. And Novia, oh Novia wouldn't like this at _all_.

But what was one to do?

"Sure, save us three seats?"

"Of course," he left her with a warm kiss, and prolonged her dizzy spell for another ten minutes.

By the time she stumbled into Divination class, she felt like she was a pile of goo held together by some unnatural anti-physics force. The Professor didn't really notice her late arrival, and she crept to the empty seat next to Novia. She really couldn't think of anything, and so when the Professor called on her to demonstrate tealeaf reading, she blurted out, "The air glitters with color because I wasn't here when the water boiled."

That somehow earned five points for Gryffindor, and she chose not to question how life had so quickly straightened itself out.

The magic of things inexplicably working out flowed out of Larka to everybody surrounding her, for after Divination, Lily stayed behind and approached Larka as she was leisurely packing things up.

"A word, Larka?"

"Oh! Lily, didn't see you there—You people are starting to make it a habit of startling me when I'm all nice and comfy inside my thoughts." Larka had always thought that Lily's complexion—lame-red hair and emerald green eyes, freckles on fine skin—was too bright to be astonishingly beautiful. She was still a pretty girl, but the bulk of her charm did not come from her looks. Rather, she had an air that made everybody feel at ease, almost like a light buzz from a butterbeer, and feel a strange urge to pour one's soul out to her. "What would you like to talk about?"

"James told me that you gave him the lines to that little speech that he delivered."

"He did?" Larka was surprised—she had instructed him to not mention her.

"Yes, that's why I agreed to the date; honesty should be rewarded." If Lily was not so bent on proving that she was right, perhaps she would have believed in it herself.

"Oh."

"You really shouldn't be encouraging him though, he's already got more than enough ego than he could handle." Lily wanted—and expected—Larka to agree with her, and they could diverge into a girl-talk about boys and their various faults.

Larka, however, failed that expectation. Instead, she smiled as if she beheld some secret that was precious and glorious, and said, "Of course I'm going to speak in his favor—as his friend, I naturally would, but even as such, I feel like I don't do James enough justice. You've decided on his imperfections based on your own imagination, fancying that to contain all the facts. But if you should ever let go of that personal bias, you will see that he's quite a trustworthy person, very resolute and lively, possessing the rare combination of a clever mind and an amiable heart. He might appear mean, but he is only a boy, and one must expect that out of boys."

"Some boys are more man than he."

"Like who? Who, with the same qualities as James so much to be justifiably cocky about, with the same looks and popularity and therefore a life of ease and perhaps too many compliments—who would be more friendly, less arrogant, more straightforward, and less stubborn?"

"I suppose…he could be worse…but that's not so much a justification for his ways! To have others worse does not justify his faults."

"No, it doesn't I guess," Larka conceded, "But imagine if he was taciturn and haughty like Lucius Malfoy! Besides, he might have too high an opinion of himself, and he might enjoy tormenting Snape a little too much, but he seldom expresses scorn for others."

"So I'm supposed to just forget about Severus altogether?"

"No," Larka frowned—it was universal knowledge that Lily had a falling out with Severus Snape, so she did not expect such strong defense for him, but she supposed that years of friendship left its inerasable residue. "But you know that James was really just trying to be a vigilante in his own way. He might be a complete prat about it, but he—well, he's got a good _soul_, is what I'm trying to say."

"You're making a case for him having a _soul_ now," Lily found herself become amused despite her frustration at James and therefore Larka.

"Yes, a soul. His actions might be of a bully's but his intentions were as much to affirm his philosophy of equality for Muggle-borns, as to cause mayhem. It takes a certain growth to understand the difference between mayhem and misery though, to others."

"He's willfully, purposefully mean."

"Now you're just filling in the blanks. How well do you really know him? If he is cruel, then it is a childish cruelty, one that doesn't really see these things as being cruel."

"Are you calling me judgmental?"

"No, I just implied that you might have a stronger case if you did try to leave your judgments of him behind when you go to dinner with him." Larka could tell that even though Lily held up a fierce front, she was more charmed by James than she let on—which was why she was so hostile towards him, Larka thought.

The conversation more or less ended, and in its process, they had approached the doors to the dining hall. Novia was just a step behind, and Larka wasn't sure if she had heard her fervent defense of James. If she did, she betrayed no signs of disapproval. Kelso, on the other hand, simply shot her a strange look, and fell behind more to walk closely with Novia.*

The company of four walked through the doors, and Lily gave a small, barely discernible nod in James's direction. James was star-struck for a moment, but quickly regained his wits and gave his brightest smile: that was the friendliest gesture that Lily exhibited towards him in all his Hogwarts years. She, however, did not go so far as go towards him, but rather bid a polite goodbye to Larka and went to her group of friends. Larka took this moment to lead the group to where Sirius had saved the seats beside them. It was a natural enough movement, as the lunch table was really all full except for those three seats, but Novia and Kelso were not oblivious people—there had to be much rude shooing away in order to maintain those seats empty.

Nonetheless, Larka sat down happily, aglow with both happiness and a shyness under the expressive eyes of the James and Remus.

"Larka," Remus began, "long time no see."

"Yeah, it's been a while, hasn't it? I've been making you proud in Transfiguration though."

"I'm glad to hear it."

"The roasted lamb is particularly good today," Sirius interrupted their civil exchange by dropping a leg of lamb on Larka's plate, "You really should hoard all of it before James and I gulp every last bit of it down."

She was very fond of mutton, and even if she wasn't she would have still eat all of the lamb leg up. "Thanks, Sirius, I do like lamb."

"Lamb and Brussels sprouts, right?"

Larka couldn't help but smile—they had once, in the middle of the quiet library, gotten into quite a heated conversation about which meat had the best flavors and what was the best side dish, "I can't believe you remember."

"Of course," he waved a hand in a blasé manner, "I never forget any passionate arguments about the merits of food."

"What he mean to say is," James interjected, "He took that conversation to heart so that he might impress his girlfriend one day."

Well, the cat was out of the bag. Remus hung his head as he sighed, and his hand landed on the table with a thud. James looked bewildered at the disapproving look he got from both Sirius and Remus.

Larka quickly glanced at Novia.

Novia had looked at their easy banter with a rising suspicion and a sinking feeling, but when James exposed their relationship, her vision was filled with a flashing bright light. Now, Novia was a very understanding person under normal circumstances, but—this was betrayal. She stood up icily, dragging Kelso with her, and left abruptly, without giving Larka a chance to say anything.

Not that Larka had anything to say—it was what it was, and there was no excuse around it. She had done the one ban of friendships, she dated the guy that broke her friend's heart. In fact, if Larka was being honest, she would say Novia was taking it exceptionally well given the discovery.

Kelso had turned back to give Larka a long, hard look, before the two of them went out of the hall entirely, and Larka was left to feel a cold draught blowing into her bones.

"That wasn't the best way to let them know," Remus piped up, "But they would have learned of it at some time."

Larka nodded rather dumbly.

"Oh god, Larka, I'm so sorry, I'm such a moron when it comes to girls…" James grumbled out an apology, and Larka shook her head without making a sound.

"Darling, do you want to go after them and clear things up as best as we can?" Sirius offered. Larka repeated shaking her head, but felt a small corner of her heart warm up at the word 'we'.

"Maybe they won't mind it much after a while?" Peter also said his bit. Larka hesitated between nodding and shaking her head (her only two modes of expression now), and settled for neither.

"Oh Larka," Sirius put his left arm around her reassuringly, "Eat before the meat's gone cold—cold meat and silence never helped anybody."

Larka followed his advice, and decided that Peter was more insightful than she gave him credit for.

* * *

* Kelso had long been skeptical of Larka's singular passion in getting Novia together with Sirius. If Larka had been any less artless and harmless, she would have thought it was Larka's way of living vicariously through Novia. However, she soon discovered that it was less of a passion for 'Novia and Sirius', than a passion for Sirius. She was surprised to find Novia so accepting of this said passion, but again was surprised just now by the fact that Novia just simply didn't _know_. Boys, Kelso decided, were bad for the soul.


	17. Faith Absent of Reason

**Chapter 16**

**Faith Absent of Reason**

Larka fell asleep like a dead log that night after trying very hard to get Novia to speak but one word to her. So she was all the more annoyed when an arm reached through the curtains of her bed and pulled her pillow away. She had just sunk into sweet slumber, with the most beautiful start to a dream.

"Oof," she grunted and pulled the curtains apart, half expecting Kelso waiting to discuss the events (or scold her, but even scolding was at least acknowledging her). But the sight before was not the one she had expected, indeed, there was actually nobody in sight.

She was about to fall back to the bed when she heard a muffled rustling that sounded like sheets of soft fabric rubbing together at some distance.

"Who's there?" She narrowed her eyes and muttered, mind fogged by sleepiness and voice sharpened by the acidity of impatience.

The source of the sound came closer and shed its invisibility. It was Sirius.

She really was too tired for this… "What are you doing here? Wait, how did you even _get_ here?"

He flashed his winning smile and replied airily, "One must have ways of getting about the castle discreetly, if one is to impress his lady."

Larka tried to not think of all the previous times that Sirius had sneaked into girls' dormitories. And what that implied. And all the grand adventures that he had before her. With all those girls. And the experience, the pleasures, the stories—the tales that she was not part of. She felt slightly embarrassed at the rising sensation of jealousy, felt inexplicably that Sirius could somehow see her jealousy, and tried to hid her emotion with a pretense of indignation, "Well am I supposed to be impressed?"

"Not yet."

"But soon I hope? I was getting very into my dream, you know."

"Well I was thinking, you hardly ate half of your usual food intake, so…"

"I'm not complaining, am I?" She retorted, but was betrayed by her own body as her stomach gave a low grumble. (How convenient!)

Sirius grinned, "At least I'm hungry, so if the good lady could accompany me on an escapade to Hogsmeade?"

Larka liked the idea far more than she let on, and asked, "Who else is coming with us?"

Sirius shrugged and took the liberty to sit down on her bed, "Remus is, of course, all adult responsibility and thoughts of the test tomorrow—he would be frowning and lost in recitation anyway, even if he came. James, old bloke, is being more insane than usual, and little Peter was quite awestruck by his display of tireless energy. I had left them both in a state of insanity to come find my princess."

Larka felt her cheeks sting with warmth, and tried to focus on the curtains, wrapping a small tendril of tassel fringe around her index finger. The fabric was fascinating really, smooth but coarse, and various other adjectives that she couldn't bring to mind right now.

Sirius, noticing her small movements, took her hand and removed the soft velvety curtain, and raising the hand to his mouth, flustering Larka very much. She pulled her hand away just a second after it touched his warm lips and stood up, panicking and said, "You said you were hungry, so let's go."

Sirius hid his smile with a hand and picked up a cloak on the floor, sloppily thrown there.

She just noticed it when he picked it up, but it was such a strange thing: it was woven with a translucent fabric, silky and slippery, like a sliver of pale tissue. It changed from silver to all tints of pale colors, and reminded Larka of the dream world that one half saw after waking up from a long slumber.

"An invisibility cloak," Sirius said proudly to the confused Larka, "One of James's more useful possessions, and of course he would have no qualms about lending it to us for a night—James is good like that."

She touched it gingerly, still not sure if she trusted something so... shifty. It was like watered honey knit into textile, glossy under her fingers, and cool like frosted glass.

Sirius, on the other hand, decided if they waited any longer, they wouldn't have enough time to enjoy themselves and took the freedom to drape his arm around her shoulder and covered them under the cloak. They went down the stairs, out of the Fat Lady (who had swung in much confusion for nobody), along the corridors, and before she knew it, they were sauntering inside a murky tunnel.

It was like she fell down a rabbit hole. "How, where," she struggled to group her words.

"Ah, the basic points of the plot?" Sirius suggested, good-humored.

"Sure, if there is a plot, it would be good to know about it."

"Well don't you worry about the directions, we've found more tunnels by wandering aimlessly at night than you would believe. But do make sure you nudge a bit closer," Sirius whispered against her ear, his warm, moist breath making Larka feel like she should fall straight to the ground and see plenty of stars. "There's no telling what oozy, jelly creatures fill these dark spaces."

She did lean a bit closer to him, but it had nothing to do with any oozing creatures that might or might not have existed.

Sirius chuckled, "You're so cute when you pretend you're not flustered."

Larka thought that she should be indignant, but could not bring herself to be as he planted a quick kiss on her cheek, making her skin tingle with shots of electricity. This boy here had too much of an effect on her, she realized hopelessly.

"We'll be there soon enough. One of these days, I'll show you all the tunnels that I've ever walked in, and we will walk like this every night, into forever.*"

He pushed open a trap door, and they found themselves inside The Magic Neep**. No one was around, not even the shop owner, as it was well beyond the night-hours. Careful to not touch anything that might fall to the ground, they walked soundlessly to the door.

"There's a frightful ledge right about—"

Too late, she had already tripped, and fell straight into his arms.

Well that wasn't too bad of a turn. The force of her fall had pushed Sirius against the wall, and with a soft oomph, he sneaked his arms around her waist and somehow the both of them were just leaning against the wall, trapped in a lover's embrace.

Larka's face fit nicely into the crook of Sirius's neck, and she couldn't help but remember how her mother had always said the perfect height for a couple was for the girl to reach the guy's chin with heels. There was some merit to that saying, she decided, as she half-consciously nuzzled against his neck.

"Larka," his voice was strained a little, "It's somewhat embarrassing, but I'm actually ticklish."

That did not help his case, for Larka immediately started nuzzling even more, with the help of her hair.

Sirius gave a muffled laugh, but brought her closer. "Oh you little imp," he grinned heinously, "I could stay here forever, except for that I really can't stand all the tickling."

Larka fell still and listened to Siruis's pulse, melting into her own in her ears. A few dusty rays of moonlight peaked in through the glazed window and fell on the floor. A soft zephyr blew past and fell silent as it reached them, fearing to bother the two. A cloud passed overhead, and covered the moon, as if it too felt the dreamlike spell that took over both Sirius and Larka.

Everything was so quiet and surreal, so Larka didn't resist the kiss from Sirius.

A good long while later, they found themselves in a breathless heap against the wall, both depending on the other for standing up. Sirius was whispering sweet nothings to Larka, and it took her a while to realize that he was actually reciting some cheesy Neruda poems for her.

She laughed, and her laughter wounded Sirius's pride.

"This is the part where you swoon at my literacy and weep out of joy, Larka, can't you ever get your cue?"

Through giggles, she answered, "You might have been more charming without reading some love poem, Sirius, that hardly suits you."

"What are you talking about, everybody knows that dating 101 is basically just glossy words."

"Oh is that what you're showing me? Dating 101?" The sarcasm was only half feigned.

"All the previous times I had been practicing for this," he tried to kiss her again, but Larka batted him away.

"So the knight said, every time he encountered a woman, hoping that it might be the true princess this time around."

Sirius frowned, and seemed a little sad. "A knight always knows his princess, he just didn't believe in princesses before he met one."

"So the Knight of the Swan*** saves each princess, and then goes away, forgetting them and his own name." Larka was almost resolved to prove him wrong.

"We're taking the knight metaphor too far," he concluded.

Silence ensued, and Larka secretly worried if she had overdone it and if he was mad at her. She couldn't bring herself to apologize, because she didn't think she said anything untrue, but she also couldn't stop fretting over his sudden silence. She peered at him cautiously, and saw that he, again, had a frown. She thought it was more of a pensive frown than a disapproving one, but she couldn't be sure.

"Where are we at, actually?" she asked, hoping to forget that conversation.

No such luck—Sirius either didn't hear her or was ignoring her. Larka sighed and turned to see a stash of turnips in the moonlight. She took one, rubbed it against her gown, and passed it to Sirius, in a silence gesture of compromise.

All of a sudden Sirius stepped towards her and began to talk: "I was trying to be cute with the whole knights thing, because I wasn't sure how to say it, and it sounds so cheesy when you try to say something like 'I love you' seriously, and this sort of suave, meaningless charm is so easy to me, that I take it up without even thinking about it. You're right, I must have said similar things to a dozen girls at very least. It's just…well I don't know how to say that I care about you. In the proper way, at least, the way that matters."

Larka smiled half-heartedly. "Don't explain—I either don't need it or won't believe you anyway."

Sirius deepened his frown, "Now you're trying to be cute, or clever, or whatever the proper adjective is."

Her hands reached to smooth his brows before she could control them, "I'm sorry. What I should be saying is, I care for you too?"

He stepped in to kiss the top of her head. "Well, all it takes is two bumbling fools to make something out of this."

She hugged him, letting his warmth soothe her.

"Just trust me, okay?"

And, despite all common sense and all honorable attempts, she did.

* * *

* Sirius made such promises, so naturally and so instinctively. Saying words like 'forever' and 'always' and 'one day' and 'we will' were like drawing breath, and he grabbed them from his surrounding air like they were little faeries that danced around him. Those who were quick to promise were also quick to forget, but Sirius remembered every single one of his promises—not where he made them, or when (he had frightfully bad memory for specifics, again), but he believed in his promises so fiercely, that he always had the full intent of fulfilling them.

** There was also a tunnel from the castle into Honeyduke's, but that one was overused and chocolates were like Madam Puddifoot's— thoroughly too romantic for Sirius.

*** Larka had gotten her 13th century history wrong. The Knight of the Swan was a wizard whose Patronus was in the shape of a swan, for his lady love's slender neck reminded him so much of the bird. He was forced to leave her when she chanced upon him casting a magical fire one night at the hearth. The tale of Lohengrin son of Percival had been written into an opera by the Muggles, but in no version of the story did the knight leave his lady willingly.

* * *

A/N: Feedback on Larka as a character / the pace of their relationship?


	18. Mistakes of Youth

**Chapter 17**

**Mistakes of Youth**

Here comes the moment in every story, in which the protagonist fails his role. Of course, the protagonist of our tale is Sirius Black—who could ever make enough out Larka Roxburgh to spin a story?

Naturally, this moment of failure came at night, in the Astronomy tower. It was Wednesday night, but Larka was engaged more in entertaining Sirius than she was at star gazing and analysis. They were whispering for no reason but to add suspense to the cloaking darkness. It was because of their unnecessary whispering that they were able to hear a shuffling behind them, approaching quickly with purpose.

They both looked behind, and saw the slouching shape of Snape coming at them.

Sirius, up in a moment, dug inside his robe and fumbled a little to find his wand—magical weapons were not kept in easy reach when he was dillydallying with his girlfriend.

Snape did not wait for him though, and threw an _Incarcerous_ curse at him, ropes immediately shooting at Sirius like thick, angry pythons, snaking around him tightly. "You really have no inhibitions, Black," he hissed out, "To be fucking your best bud Lupin's bird at dark—or is he so used to not having anything that he doesn't mind sharing?"

(It was obvious that the boy did not swear much usually, but he did his best to do justice to his anger.)

Larka felt a shot of surprise run through her, and in the state of being completely offended, she found that she couldn't see properly, and instead her vision wavered as her hands trembled and heat rose to her cheeks. She fumbled out her wand and tried to calm herself.

Sirius, bound by hands and feet but not by tongue, caustically growled back, "You lily-livered coward, if you have a single manly bone in your body, you'd unbind me and give a good bout."

He had an awful choice of words, really, for Snape fumed at the word 'lily'.

Larka, by this time, had tried a few times to undo the curse cast upon Sirius but to no avail. She was always better at practicing peaceful charms in class than any down and dirty spells. She watched Snape take a few steps towards them and backed up instinctively. Then, realizing that Sirius could not escape with her, she retracted her steps and got in front of Sirius without even thinking. Larka couldn't understand how Sirius functioned in fights—in fact, if this was but a few months ago, she would have cowered away and ran to get a teacher. But she couldn't really leave Sirius at the mercy of such a menacing Snape, could she?

Snape was glaring at Larka with a hatred so profound that Larka felt ill at ease simply by meeting his eyes. "You," he made out in a low, strained snarl, "You ungrateful little whelp, you're every bit as spiteful as Black, I wish that I had given you explosives instead of shell powder when you asked for Potions help."

Larka was at a loss as to what she did to deserve such hatred, and as she wondered, Sirius bellowed from behind her, "Don't you dare lay a finger on her Snape! What's between us doesn't concern her!"

Snape hardly cast him a glance as he approached, "Shut up Black, as egocentric as always, this has nothing to do with you." He pointed his wand to Larka and spat out, "You pushed Lily towards that bastard!"

Larka was bewildered. Never had she thought matchmaking to be such a dangerous job.*

"Run Larka, we'll get him back later!" Sirius whispered behind her, but Larka couldn't find the will to leave Sirius here, defenseless. Seeing that she wasn't complying, Sirius got more and more frantic, "Run you idiot girl, run! You're no match for him in a bout! _Run_!"

Larka watched Snape get closer, and she was strangely detached. She seemed to have come out of her body and looked on at Snape's mouth shaping into a curse as a third party. She had never been so close to actual danger before, but she couldn't shake the surreal passivity in her. _Well_, she thought rather calmly, _there comes the curse to end my life. Nothing to be done._ Still she stood her ground, an arm in front of Sirius as if her measly arm was an impenetrable shield.

It was hardly a lethal spell, but it did cut her shoulder like a thousand wasps. As pain exploded, the world turned dark for Larka. She could almost see the ripples of pain shooting up from her shoulder to tell her brain that she was hurt. She could faintly feel blood trickling down her right arm, and she assumed that there was some sort of wound there. Her head was spinning, and she was a little nauseated.

Sirius, on the other hand, saw red in the world. At the sight of Larka trembling before him, blood darkening and running down her robe, he could no longer think. Every thought that had ever occurred to him, every emotion he has ever felt, every ounce of hatred that had been bred into him through his bloodline—all coursed through his mind like cheetahs in pursuit of prey.

Then was the perfect moment to cast a second spell. Snape had every intention of cursing this foolish girl beyond her comprehension, but for some reason, hesitated, almost as if he was deliberating whether he should show that he was a better man than Sirius. Sirius, however, did not give him the chance, for before Snape could even understand the reason behind his hesitation, Sirius had hissed, "Whomping Willow."

The words had a strange ring of fatality to them, and Snape paused.

Sirius took the opportunity to say, "Press the knot at the root and see how your Lily likes that."

And Snape was gone in an instant.

Larka let out a breath that she didn't even know she was holding. She crawled ungracefully to her feet. Strangely, she was less scared of her own blood than seeing the blood of others. With a quick _episkey_, she healed most of it. Perhaps she should start asking Remus to tutor her more advanced spells, she thought. Then she looked at Sirius hopelessly, for she had already tried every unbinding spell that she knew of.

They spent a few minutes in silence, both wheeling from the events, letting the reality of it sink it. All of a sudden, the color drained from Sirius's face, then all the colors gushed to his cheeks as his eyes drew wide and wild, and he cried, "Oh _Merlin_ what have I _done_?"

Larka looked at him in confusion. She felt like she had missed something with the whole Whomping Willow thing, but apparently so did Sirius.

Sirius had begun tugging at the spell binding him like a berserk animal, and shouted to Larka, "_Rerum dilabuntur_! _Rerum dilabuntur_!"

"Wha—what?"

"Say it, it's a spell, just say it!"

Oh, he was teaching her a spell. About time. Now this was the part that she was good at, classroom stuff. "_Rerum dilabuntur_," she repeated a few times, and soon a bright light appeared at the tip of her wand. She was rather proud of how quickly she had learned the spell, but the moment Sirius could move, he darted out of sight.

Larka, recovering from shock, ran after Sirius. She couldn't possibly keep up though, as she led a sedentary lifestyle. She never caught up with Sirius, and indeed didn't even know where he was going. Something in her guts told her to go outside though, so she made her way to the grounds.

The moment she stepped outside of the castle, the night hit her like a wall. The air was cold and biting and it cut her cheeks, and a veil of malicious mist hung in the air. The moon was round and chilling, but no minstrel or poet would write odes to this moon, in all its bleakness.

She thought that she had seen the running figure of Sirius out of the corner of her eyes, and ran towards that. He was running faster she had seen anybody run before, and soon he disappeared behind a cluster of trees.

Larka realized that she lost him, but she could make out something happening in the far distance.

The Willow had stopped moving.

Larka made her way towards it, hoping to see Sirius just behind some tree or other. The moon did a good job of illuminating the ground before her, and she was surprised to see Moddey, the black dog, in the distance as well. The moonlight had shone on something silvery. Moddey was apparently fighting with some other dog his size, with fur that seemed to be made from shifting mercury.

Larka stopped dead in her tracks. That was no dog—that was a wolf, a werewolf. She saw illustrations of those in her Defense Against Dark Arts textbook—they looked no less majestic in life, but a thousand times more dangerous. She was petrified with fear, and she didn't know if the world around her was real or not anymore—this all seemed too storybook** and dramatic for her life.

All of a sudden, a hand grabbed her wrist and pulled on her. Before she shrieked, another hand covered her mouth and she bit into the hand.

"Shh," the owner of the hand didn't even flinch at her bite.

Larak bent her neck in an awkward angle and saw that it was James, frazzled looking and with the same wild eyes as Sirius. She then noticed that Peter was there as well, leading a shaking Snape, looking paler than she had thought possible for humans. She wondered if she had looked like that when she was wounded.

They were both led back into the castle. Nobody talked along the way.

* * *

* Matchmaking was always a dangerous job. The unsuccessful jobs always earned the animosity of the parties involved, and the successful jobs often brought the undeserved loathing from other parties. A textbook example of the former was the ongoing feud between Sheena Valens of Ravenclaw and Chelsea Klein, both of whom ran around Lloyd Curtiss like headless chicken on love potions. The wrath of Sheena was directed towards Arlene Day, however, for her attempts to match-make her roommate Chelsea with Lloyd. Arlene's further support of Anise Nott in her pursuit of Sirius Black also earned her Larka's resentment, but Larka did not hold grudges, and forgave her unaffectedly when she starting dating Remus Lupin. Textbook example of the latter was transpiring as of now.

** The storybook that Larka's parents read her in her childhood was the famed _The Werewolf of Baskervilles_. It featured a haunting image of a werewolf, and had a sensational pop-up illustration with the red gleaming eyes and the foaming saliva running down its snarling snout. It was a parents' favorite, since it provided them with a tangible threat for their children. In contrast to that, Larka found the DADA textbook illustrations to be rather tame and boring.

* * *

A/N: Hopefully Larka came through as somebody unaccustomed to fighting, but gathered up courage that she didn't have before for this fight.

And hopefully how Sirius blurted out this awful mistake was natural. I always thought that he couldn't have planned it without realizing how badly it would go.


	19. Redemption

**Chapter 18**

**Redemption**

Dumbledore was immediately fetched, and things were cleared up a little.

The strange combination of Sirius, James, Peter, Larka and Snape clustered before the Headmaster's desk. Dumbledore seemed to be lost in thought until he suddenly spoke, "Firstly, the event of tonight must die with you, never to be spoken."

"All these people need to be expelled, Headmaster, for harboring such a beast!" Snape heatedly made out.

"I had known of Mr. Lupin's…condition, upon his entrance."

Snape was flabbergasted.

"Werewolves, Mr. Snape, are shunned for they are feared. Mr. Lupin was bitten at a very young age, a terrible accident, and never had much of a chance in life. If this gets out, he will no longer be able to stay at the school, and in the worst case scenario, his life might be jeopardized."

Snape opened his mouth to speak, "But he's a monster, a, a _fiend_, he—"

"He is a fellow student of ours, and a good man. He deserves an education here." Dumbledore interrupted, fixing his glance at Snape, "Now, swear that you will not, under any circumstances, tell anyone this secret."

Larka nodded as she had lost her voice long ago, whereas Snape snorted.

Dumbledore sighed and continued in a grave voice, "It will be too late when I find out you have broken your words, but... I trust you."

Snape trembled at the word 'trust', and after a moment nodded as well.

Dumbledore waved at them with a hand, signaling them to leave. Larka looked at Sirius with worry: he was paler than paper and shuddered intermittently. His entire person was such a wreck, and despite what happened, Larka couldn't help but want him to feel better.

"Miss Roxburgh, you may be excused."

She looked at James imploringly, who refused to meet her eyes, and went out. As she lingered behind the closed door, she could faintly hear the Headmaster address Sirius with, "Your mistake, Mr. Black, warrants expulsion from the school, for it…"

She took her leave, heart swollen with dread, and dreamt of awful things.

—

The scene the next day was not a pretty one.

None of the people involved in the incident showed up at breakfast, and Larka sat with some of the people she acquainted this year, nodding through their banal chatter about Lauren's new hairstyle and that Ravenclaw bitch who stole Emily's boyfriend. Lunch was the same ordeal. She endured the classes in such a state of agitation and hazed confusion that she thought she would fail all her courses this year.

It seemed of little importance though. Funny how her entire life view and value system toppled over and reconstructed after converging paths with Sirius.

At dinner, she found the Marauders to be sitting quietly, at a cold war amongst them.

Remus was sulking, and it clearly took James's forceful hand to guide him to eat anything. James's face was bunched up in an unusual state of fury. Peter was for once trying to look away from the group. Sirius, but oh Sirius was sitting across the table, and his head was bent over so much that his forehead could have touched the tabletop.

Larka felt a small quiver of fear as she walked closer to them, to Remus. She was a traditional sort of witch, brought up by traditional pureblood parents, and if they distilled in her all the old prejudices and fears, then it was not to be wondered at. Still, Larka could hardly reconcile the image of the snarling, berserk wolf that she remembered from picture books, to the sight of Remus, looking very, very tired and very, very small. Perhaps he was a very special kind of werewolf, Larka thought, more like a were-husky-dog than a were_wolf_. Then she remembered what she saw the night before, and knew that Remus was just the sort of werewolf that her parents had frightened her with when she misbehaved.

_Larka Janet Roxburgh, stop picking at your beans, or the big bad werewolf will get you! Larka Janet Roxburgh, go out in the sun or the werewolf will eat you in the corner! Larka Janet Roxburgh, one more cashew and you'll be plump for the werewolf's picking!_

It was always the werewolf. In her youth, it had summed up every single fear she ever had.

But she was grown up, or at least grown enough to be able to face this, Larka thought. Besides, who could find it in their hearts to doubt Remus Lupin? He was by far the gentlest soul she had ever met. A few storybook illustrations and generational reprimands were _not_ going to change anything, she determinedly told herself.

The first breathes were hard, but she soon got used to breathing in his vicinity. The first few steps were hard too, but none came close to her reaching out her trembling fingers and soothingly put it on Remus's arm.

She was touching the big, bad _werewolf_ now, mother and father, and he was _perfectly fine_.

"Remus," she spoke, her voice much steadier than she felt, "You will be taking the N.E.W.T.s soon, right? Might if I study for mine next year with you guys?"

He stay stilled like cold marble and gave no signal that he had even heard her.

"You know, the tutoring sessions—I kind of miss them in truth." The more she spoke to him, the more he looked like a normal teenage boy and less like a ferocious monster ready to condemn her to hell.

_There you go_, she told herself, _nothing to it but a will to power_.

Remus lifted his head of sandy hair, to reveal a face cheerless and perplexed, "You…want me to tutor you again?"

"Yes," Larka said firmly.

"You want to be in a room with me, alone?"

"Yes."

"You…"

"I don't mind, Remus, let's just stop the tiptoeing."

The corner of his lips turned upwards ever so slightly, and his shoulders rolled back. He shot her a smile—she thought it must have been grateful, or relieved, but truth was she couldn't decipher Remus very well even when he wasn't being very enigmatic.

The other hand limp at her side—not the _touching werewolf_ hand—was found by Sirius, who held it and squeezed it gently. If Larka couldn't see their limbs joint together though, she would have thought her hand was hallucinating him holding her, because Sirius was just as still and cold-marble-like visibly.

_Oh poor Sirius_, she thought_._ Somewhere in the logical part of her, she knew she ought to be thinking 'Oh poor Remus'. Larka knew that Sirius was in the wrong here, but really, her first affections would always be for Sirius, so let nobody tell her that she was supposed to reprimand him as well. Especially given that his mistake was made in the passionate rise against Snape, who was threatening her.

She squeezed his hand back reassuringly—certainly with more assurance than she felt herself, at the moment. He was usually so warm, but now his hand felt like a slap of an ice block against her skin. It took a few more moments of hovering over the table before she could awaken her muscles enough to actually sit down.

James made an effort to smile at her, but the effect was lost. Larka tried to smile back, but she couldn't, and James had looked away anyhow.

Peter was actually the most hearteningly calm person amid them all. He soldiered on, breathing in and out regularly, and that was enough support. Larka both admired his calmness and envied it.

So two hours trickled by in this stupor of silence and awkwardness. Two hours of people coming and going, before the tables were all empty, and the elves had begun to clean up. Two hours before Larka decided that this was _silly_.

"If you chaps are done here," she began, her voice trembling less than she thought it might, "Then we should continue with our lives." She tried to rise, but Sirius's hand held down like an anchor in the bay. She tried to plead with Peter, but he just gave her a small nod. She tried to look at James disapprovingly, but he glared at Sirius when his eyes were not on the table.

Larka sighed. She suppose that it would take longer than two hours. But Sirius repented so deeply and profoundly—surely that had to mean something in terms of redemption?

It turned out that the road to redemption was a very long and very silent one.

Days passed, and they had made a sort of truce, where all of them did not mention the happening. There was still a cold war going on, but at the very least they sat without a suffocating cloud of silence and guilt. No, they just sat in general silence.

(Sirius kept trying to be a house elf to Remus, believing that clean sheets and a cornucopia of chocolates would somehow redeem him. Until Remus broke the wall of silence for about five minutes to yell at Sirius.)

More days passed, making a month out of the war. Some healing occurred.

(They were talking again, tentatively, about classes, about the weather, about Lily dating James and sometimes Larka dating Sirius. They made attempts to laugh that came out strained and nervous.)

Eventually, as with all things, this too passed. The process was painful, and there was no real logic behind it. It was a bizarre thing to begin with, and we must not try to describe it at all. Let the Marauders keep this as a secret chapter in their gleaming school-year-storybook.

(The first time Remus smiled at Sirius was a remarkable day. So was the day that Remus first joked with him, first socked him so hard in the arm that he got bruises, first faced Snape's eyes without withering. Larka was happy for Sirius on all those days.)

Redemption came, however, not when Sirius did anything, but when Remus looked over to the adjacent hospital bed, where Sirius laid in tatters, beaten up badly by the wolf, Larka wringing her hands at his side. That was almost half a year from the first incident, but better late than never.

Madam Pomfrey was not even shocked to see Black in this state, or not as much as she would have liked to be. In fact, she would have liked to be sterner, but it was hard, for the boy had a way of charming into everybody's hearts. She was also rather used to him being beaten up, although it was never quite as bad as this.

"What happened this time?" she asked tiredly to nobody in particular. Remus alone commanded enough attention and tender sympathy without Black adding to the heap of brokenness. She was too young for this.

"James here did a great reflecting spell, just rather poorly aimed," Sirius lied through his teeth, grimacing but forcing out what he thought was a good smile.

Madam Pomfrey wasn't satisfied, "And what Sixth Year has business doing a spell as complicated as this?"

"Well ma'am," Sirius replied meekly, "we like to prepared, if you know what I mean, for when we go out into the world. You never know what you might need."

Madam Pomfrey knew what he meant. These were dark times that the students faced, but it was not a time to discuss such things. From the looks of the Roxburgh girl (who, thank Merlin, was not teary, but had a strangely maternal sadness to her), at least Black had done good in shielding her from most of the rumors out there.

Poppy Pomfrey exited the room feeling ten years older than when she entered it.

* * *

A/N: I want to write something after this, a summary of Larka's Sixth Year / their last year in school together, but I can't think of any interesting event / plot. Help?

Also general reviews would make me very happy!


	20. Many a Summer Morning

**Chapter 19**

**Many a Summer Morning**

It was a good summer. Incredible, filled with light and chilled sun and the urgency of the four's last summer of school. One of the best summers, and certainly one of the last.

It was also an unusually cool summer, with only a few days of hazy stickiness in August. Those were the dog days, and Larka spent those with shut blinds, shaved ice, and Proust. She never got up from bed on those days, melting into a pool of unladylike sweat and grossness. The summer was when her grandparents stayed with them, and grandma couldn't bear any artificial cooling, instead trusting only the Merlin-given air.

They didn't have a warded house with a train of elves, like the _Families_ (the Blacks, even the Potters) did, but it was a nice little place, with a yard that used to be big enough for Larka to divide into kingdoms, and proximity to the county town of Guildford that allowed them 'city-life' whenever they chose. It was, after all, the largest town in Surrey, Mr. and Mrs. Roxburgh liked to remind people as they dressed for Saturday shows and Sunday dinners.

She had made it to the last part of _In the Shadow of Young Girls in Flower_, and was reading a particularly poignant (and _long_) sentence when Mrs. Roxburgh—her mother—entered without a knock.

"Larka sweetie," her mom appeared at the suddenly open doorway, "There's an owl for you."

All her letters went through her mother, but Larka didn't mind that so much. She never got too many letters in the summer, and they were all from Novia in any case. This summer though, Novia hadn't sent a single letter, and Larka had to make up an elaborate traveling plan for Novia so that mother didn't worry herself to death. Kelso had sent a few, short ones, and they had been very enjoyable to read. The letters never mentioned Sirius though, so Larka's mother was not aware of the existence of such a boy, despite reading all her letters.

That was also because she got no letters from Sirius.

Larka had left him a neatly written note of her address, and also wrote it on the inside cover of his Transfiguration book that he held sentimental value to as well, just in case he lost her first note. She would be lying if she said she wasn't a little disappointed. She had really thought they built up something sturdy over the school year, and not even just from the whole 'furry little problem' (she found their nickname cheesy and unbelievably sweet) ordeal.

But everything looked different in the summer light, she supposed. Everything looked freer and the 'right here right now' more important.

Larka was determined to not have it ruin her summer though. She was to have a grand summer, in celebration of her getting her O.W.L.s (four O's and three A's! Her family had sent her nearly a parliament of owls with congratulatory and teary mail when she sent news of it). Which was why she never got out of bed, and had a shocking affair with Proust, who was only dead for fifty-some years.

"Could you bring it up here?" Larka asked cheekily. She had found the snuggest spot on her bed, and didn't want to put on shoes to go downstairs anyway.

Mrs. Roxburgh wiped her hands on her apron, and tucked a soft brown strand of her back behind her ear. "I have it right here," she smiled, "I know how you don't like to leave bed."

"You're the best, mum," Larka reached out a hand.

Mrs. Roxburgh walked in, holding a piece of parchment. Before she gave it to Larka though, she asked, "So who is this James boy?"

Larka's hand shook a little. Her mother's voice was so cautious and yet inquisitive—she always sounded this way when talking about _boys_. But James? James Potter? She couldn't say if she was excited that it wasn't from Kelso for a change, or disappointed that _James_ sent her something, but her _boyfriend_ had hitherto failed to do so.

"Just a boy that I made friends with last year, and," Larka gave her mother a firm look, "He has a lovely girlfriend and are going to be engaged."

"_Going to_ be engaged means nothing," her mother retorted, "Is this James boy—is he cute? Do you like him?"

"Mum!" Larka sat up on her bed and snatched the letter away, putting Proust down on her bedside table.

"Just asking!" Mrs. Roxburgh raised her hands in defense. "No need to be testy about your crush!"

"_Mum_!" Larka repeated, her voice taking on a desperate edge. It looked like a scribble of some address before she flipped the parchment and it turned out to be just a short note, barely five sentences.

_Dear Larka,_ it read_:_

_I hope Joscelind* (our owl, majestic, isn't she?) finds you well. My dad and mum let me host a small gathering (nothing like the Gryffindor gatherings, I assure you) at my place while they're out of town for a week. Thought you might like to come, would love to have you over. Send a response with Joscelind (she STILL holds the record for goals scored! The Chaser, not our owl), and Floo over at around six tonight if you can. Address on back._

_Warm regards,_

_James Charlus** Potter_

Larka was rather confused as to why James invited her over to his house. They were friends, of course, since she was dating (or at least, was at the end of the school year) his best mate, to whom he was inseparable from. Still, it hardly made them bosom buddies, nor did it warrant a private party invitation.

She guessed it was a large party then, and despite what James claimed in the letter, _exactly_ like the Gryffindor 'gathering's. She wasn't a big fan of those. She remembered attending one at the start of the year, failing miserably at talking to this popular girl, and then retreating to her dorm room, where Novia soon came to find her.

"So you won't be coming to Guildford with us then," Mrs. Roxburgh decided for Larka.

Larka _never_ accompanied them to Guildford, instead claiming a desire to guard over her grandparents. It always earned her a chuckle from grandpa and an extra slice of pie from grandma. What Mrs. Roxburgh meant, however, was clearly that she was to attend this so-called gathering.

She sighed. "Mum, do I have to go?"

Mrs. Roxburgh clucked, "You always have been such a _quiet_ child. It should be time that you find some nice boy."

"_Mum_!" She would gladly escape to James's now. "Write the owl a note saying yes then, would you?"

"Of course," Mrs. Roxburgh looked at her daughter happily. "Start dressing now, you have to look so _pretty_."

Larka obliged, despite it being a good three hours before six, getting up grudgingly to a shower and a long bout of clothes-choosing with dear mum.

—

She had Floo'ed into the hearth of a large dining room, larger than the entire first floor of her house. There was an elderly couple sitting at the table, both with black hair streaked gray. They were distinctively like James, and the woman had James's very eyes. It was hard to not know who they were, and Larka nervously smiled and was about to introduce herself when Mrs. Potter asked gently, "Larka, right?"

Larka nodded. "Pleased to meet you, ma'am, sir. Thank you for having me here."

James lied: his parents were definitely not gone for the week. There was also nobody else in the room, and so Larka stood as the Potters sized her up. In fact, they were looking at her in a way that made Larka feel like she was being appraised. She was beginning to think that they had arrived to the same quick and _wrong_ conclusion that her own mother had jumped to—that she was somehow here not just for a social gathering, but _for_ _James_. Italicized.

She cleared her throat and again was about to speak when Mrs. Potter interrupted her.

"Oh my, we are being very rude here," she realized.

Mr. Potter took this as an opportunity to inform the household in a loud but calm voice, "Larka is here, boys!"

Heavy, boyish footsteps sounded from upstairs, and the couple went back to scrutinizing Larka.

Larka was sure by now that they were very personally vested in her person. There was the unmistakable air of disapproval from Mrs. Potter that mothers took when looking at her baby boy's love interest, and Mr. Potter had that glint in his eyes that was not unlike Dumbledore's glint. Larka thought that perhaps she should clarify that she had no interest in their son. She also wondered if she passed their appraisal.

"Larka!"

The door was thrown open, and Larka's eyes widened in surprise because there stood _Sirius Black _in all his glory.

Summer tee, khaki shorts, barefoot. His hair was shorter and better-maintained. He was more tan, and by tan Larka meant half a hue darker than the whitest milk, with a blotch of sunburn on the bridge of his nose, where sweat glistened. His wand was tucked in his back pocket haphazardly but—Larka was sad to see—within quick reach. His face was thinner—much thinner—than she remembered, and there were uncomfortable bags underneath his eyes, bags that reminded Larka of Remus after the full moon.

She liked him in Muggle clothing though, she decided.

"Sirius?" she whispered out. Maybe she was suffering from a hallucinatory heat stroke.

He looked at Mr. and Mrs. Potter sheepishly (sheepishly!), "Sorry sir, didn't mean to yell. If I could take Larka to the balcony now—haven't seen her in a bit, you know."

Larka was so surprised that she didn't say anything. She had never seen Sirius so, well, so _respectful_ before. Sirius had always had a problem with authority, and his rebellious bad-boy aura was one of the reasons that the girls flocked to him. Now, Larka knew Sirius was less of a bad-boy than just a boy who really hated his parents, albeit with good reasons to. So it shocked her to see this unfold before her: Sirius slipping into the role of the son and Mr. Potter unmistakably the father figure.

Father Mr. Potter was fairly amused. "Yes, I know, catching up, right."

Mrs. Potter shook her head but was smiling, waving her hand dotingly, "Off you go then; we will call you down when the dinner is ready."

Sirius grinned, said a quick thank you, and then took Larka away by the hand as she tried to say thank you as well.

On the staircase, he pinned her to the wall and kissed her for a good five minutes. When both of them were flustered and too hot for the summer day, hair mussed a bit too tellingly and out of breath, Sirius pulled back. He smiled at her and whispered, "Haven't done that for _months_."

"One month and three weeks, actually," Larka corrected him absentmindedly, eyes tracing the exhaustion under his eyes and the burst capillaries in his eyes.

He never looked happier, she thought.

"What are you doing here?" Of course she had to ruin the moment. "Your parents would have never—did you _sneak_ out?"

Sirius puckered his nose and lost some of that happiness. "Didn't. Got out in broad daylight, and slammed the door as well. Never going back."

"You're going to be in so much trouble—" then she understood. "Oh," she said, because there was nothing else to say. "Oh."

"Sorry I wasn't in touch, old batty mumsy you know, but I just ran away yesterday."

"It's okay," she lied, "I'm glad for you. I think," she added.

"Made James write to you—didn't know if your parents would like you associating with a disowned Black."

Sirius was leading her up the stairs now, the shadows back in his eyes, so Larka did the only thing she could think of, and pinned _him _to the wall for a change.

No matter how traumatized and moody a teenage boy could get, Larka thought happily and in fragments, a good bit of snogging _always_ provided momentary distraction.

—

"Grinning like that makes you look like Nearly-Headless Nick, mate," James said in an uncharacteristically sophisticated drawl.

Sirius didn't care, as they lied on the grass that was still warm from the sun that had set not very long ago. Mr. and Mrs. Potter had gone right after dinner, and the lot of them—that was, James, Sirius, Remus, Peter, Peter's girl (she went to Beauxbatons and Peter was very proud of the fact that she was French), Remus's girl (some girl their year that Larka had always been too scared to talk to), and Larka herself. The only poor sod without a girl here was James, but he was being a good sport about it.

"Evans is coming tomorrow, just stick with it for a night, James old boy," Sirius said.

"Easy for you to say," James snorted, eyes flickering to their linked hands.

"You'll make up all of this tomorrow anyway," Peter announced, drawing his girlfriend for the summer closer. She was a little young to be out drinking whisky in some stranger's house, but who was Larka to judge.

Larka herself had too much alcohol in her to remember properly what Peter had said about the French girl. The night air was cooling now, and the breaths that Larka took gave her shivers as she panted out warm, whisky-flavored air.

Sirius had been to one to bring out the bottle of scotch whisky—some type of alcohol that Larka didn't know before. He really wasn't a very good influence, Larka admitted to herself as she took another swig out of the glass bottle. Although to be fair, he had never pushed her to drink, not even at that end-of-year party where they spied on Remus asking this girl out. She had mentally prepared herself for alcohol too, giving into the idea that Sirius would expect her to be a good sport, and had felt the strangest disappointment in her stomach when he poured her a cup of iced tea. She was, of course, soon overwhelmed by the sweetness of the grinning Sirius. That expectation of his expectation, however, was why she so easily took the bottle of whisky when they were passing it around this night. She didn't take the cigarette when it made rounds though, not even when Remus's girl took a small puff and coughed prettily.

Larka didn't need it—everything glowed with starlight and Sirius's tobacco-thick breath tasted sweet compared to the burning liquor. She felt warm and comfortable against the rocks that dug into her lower back, and life was perfect with Sirius looking so impossibly elegant—just like that—and impeccably happy on the grass that stained his white shirt. He balanced his joint between his fingers like an art piece, and the smoke he blew out unfurled in the night air like eels slipping away. Larka wondered why the Blacks chose to name their children after stars, because his eyes held more light than the entire Summer Triangle and she really couldn't think of _any_ start or light that could compare with his eyes.

Larka was against Sirius's chest and couldn't move. She wasn't sleepy, nor was she tired, but she could not find in her the will to move even when that fly landed on her cheek.

Sirius softly waved the fly away, the tips of his fingers rubbing against her cheek, making her heart tremble with his touch. Larka felt like she was going to float away with the slow zephyr that lingered around Sirius.

_I'm so in love with him_, she realized.

This was the kind of night that made fairy tales.

They had lulled into a soft silence, none of them talking as much as Larka thought they would, so when Remus's girl leaned in to bite on Remus's neck, Larka felt the courage of Scotland burn through her blood, and she too closed in on Sirius and kissed his jawline.

Surprisingly, James didn't make any snide comment about their touchy-feely relationship moment, but looked at them with such heroic eyes, bright and suddenly very, very mature for James.

"This is it, mates," he whispered into the cooling night air, the edge of it turning crisp with the spice of night, "This will be the last year of our benevolent rule over Hogwarts."

Remus's girl paused long enough to scoff at James's melodrama, but it was a good-natured scoff.

Sirius, who had pulled Larka and folded her into his embrace, lifted his face from her hair and barked out a laugh. "Why, Prongs, one might think you're going soft. Besides," he gulped down some running air, "It's only so that we can grow into Kings to rule over the capital 'W' World."

He had said it with so much unwavering conviction, that nobody mentioned the smell of war around the house, or the lingering fear of graduation and growing up. That night, they all believed in Sirius's prophecy.

—

For the rest of the summer, Larka's Proust was laid face down on her bedside table, its spine cracking slowly, in a way that book spines were not meant to be cracked. She had not realized the prophetic nature of the lines that she was reading just before she set out to meet with Sirius:

_'Gone are the Kings, gone are their towering prows,_

_Vanished upon the raging deep, alas,_

_The long-haired warrior heroes of Hellas.'_

* * *

* Joscelind Wadcock (b. 1911—), Chaser for the Puddlemere United Quidditch team. She held the record for highest number of Quidditch goals in the British League during the 20th century, achieved during a 1931 match against the Ballycastle Bats. She was James's idol, and he received many snide remarks for having a male owl named after a female Chaser. The truth was James named his owl before he knew how to distinguish between male and female owls, and had mindlessly figured that it would be whatever he wanted it to be. He still denied it being a male owl, though—at least officially.

** Mr. Potter's first name as it appeared on his headstone later on in life. The little plot of land would in time contain every single one of the Potters, all of them gathered around a tall pillar of a headstone with the family name and crest, like grandchildren around an old man's knees.

* * *

A/N: This was the summer that Sirius ran away from home, and I think the best summer of his life. But all summers end at some point. This was also my favorite chapter so far.

Remus's girl is a reference to Arlene, from my other story, _The Faultless Man_.


	21. A Very Good Year

A/N: James was originally written as Seeker in Save the Knight (ch. 12); he's actually a Chaser apparently, so this chapter reflects that.

* * *

**Chapter 20**

**A Very Good Year**

It had been a very good year. Strange, but good. Despite this being her Sixth Year, Larka found that all of the experiences (old habits wrapped around her like grown ivy) were now new. She couldn't tell you if they were better or worse, except that they were _different_, and that she liked the difference.

That much should have been clear the very first day of September, at the King's Cross Station.

Her father had given his usual speech of how she needed to focus on her studies even more now in preparation of the N.E.W.T.s, and how she should be thinking about jobs after graduation. Her mom was listing every accident in the past month and how she should behave to avoid them, every food that worsened her allergies come spring, every precaution against the common flu, et cetera. Larka was dutifully nodding to the rolling syllables, fighting off a yawn.

That was when out of the corner of her eyes, she caught the sight of the Potters walking over to them. James Potter and his almost-brother Sirius Potter née Black were walking in front of Mr. and Mrs. Potter. Larka's throat closed in as she saw Sirius waving to her and the both of them running over. Something on her face must have changed, because Mrs. Roxburgh stopped mid-speech, and along with Mr. Roxburgh, turned around just in time to see James and Sirius coming to a stop.

"Mr. and Mrs. Roxburgh," Sirius gave them a smile that showcased six perfect teeth, "Sirius Altair Deneb Black here, friend of your daughter's. Absolute honor to meet you."

"And his mate James Potter," and for once James willingly shrunk into himself, taking up much less space than he usually did and lowering his heroic eyes. (Larka suddenly understood why Lily had started going steady with this boy now of all times.)

Mrs. Roxburgh's eyes widened at the mention of _Black_, and Mr. Roxburgh's squinted as if to scrutinize him for sarcasm. While her father didn't necessary disapprove of the Families, at least he preferred to keep clear of their paths; the real problem was her mother, who took pride in her lineage that traced back to Bridget Wenlock, who discovered the magical properties of the number seven. She took up blood lineage like she took up her O's in the O.W.L.s—mildly harmless flaunting to relatives and taxi drivers*.

"Hullo Sirius, James," Mrs. Roxburgh said, "Are you here to pick up Larka? I've always said that she makes the best kind of friends. You're such sensible, upstanding, smart young men, I approve of my daughter's choice in friendship."

Although Larka was glad that her mother didn't ask about Sirius's parents, she was still embarrassed. Sirius to be sensible, really?

Sirius, to his credit, did not even show the tinniest crack in his perfect poise of manners and elegance. "Why thank you ma'am, but let me assure you that Larka has been nothing but an angelic influence." (Larka refrained from rolling her eyes with great difficulty. _Angelic_—anybody in comparison to him would be angelic.) "I would be delighted if you would give your permission to have her sit with me in our compartment." The way Sirius said it gave Larka the impression that he wasn't just talking about a simple train ride.

Mr. Roxburgh** got the same impression as well, for he went up to the boy who was already half a head taller than him, and tried his best to look intimidating. Sirius didn't back down, and instead continued smiling. Some invisible battle took place between the two men, during which Larka hugged her mother goodbye.

Mrs. Potter insisted on giving her a hug as well as she left, and the three of them walked through the wall, Mr. Roxburgh's eyes boring fiery holes into Sirius's back. Sirius had won the battle but the war was far from over.

Larka felt her headache melt away as Sirius draped an arm around her shoulder.

—

The second day, Sirius made her promise that she wouldn't drop Transfiguration and Defense Against Dark Arts, although she had only gotten an Acceptable for both in the Ordinary Wizard Levels last year.

(He wouldn't say why, but Larka knew his reasons.)

She studied more than ever, and surprised even herself with her progress in Defense Against Dark Arts—it put such a smile on Sirius's face. So while she enjoyed Charms and Astronomy the most (and not just because of their weekly rendezvous in the Astronomy tower), she studied those subjects extra hard.

Sirius volunteered to overtake Remus's role as her personal tutor, although if she was being honest, he was a horrible tutor. He couldn't explain the things that came so naturally to him, like how the house elves couldn't explain housework charms. He also had a short attention span, was loud, and extremely distracting. Often Larka found herself listening to some adventure story or following Sirius through some tunnel that she had never known to exist. She never told Sirius, but she learned more from frantically reading the textbook each time before he came to see her.

Why would she complain? It was a good system.

One good turn deserved another, and Larka's improvement in Defense Against Dark Arts definitely brought on some unexpected fortunes. Her slot of DADA contained Novia, who was barely able to get an A, and had only taken the class to appease her parents. For the majority of time, they pretended like they had never spoken in their lives before.

By third week though, Larka grew testy, and taking a page from Sirius's book, cornered Novia after class.

"Novia, wait a moment please, I'd like to grab a word with you, if you don't mind." The way Larka said 'if you don't mind' didn't leave Novia much room to mind.

Novia cleared her throat uncomfortably.

"Right then," Larka watched the last student leave from the corner of her eye, "I think we're overdue for a talk."

"Do you now," Novia scowled, her icy demeanor returning, "And what do you suppose we have to talk about?"

"How we are supposed to be best friends—yes, we _are_," she emphasized at Novia rolling her eyes.

"'Supposed to be' is right. Nobody goes and steals their _best friend_'s crush just to prove that she could."

"I _didn't_ date Sirius to prove _anything_," Larka maintained her voice steady and without anger.

Novia scoffed, and it wasn't nearly as nice a scoff as Remus's girlfriend gave James last summer.

To prove that she didn't go about proving anything, Larka said: "I love him, very much, you know."

That was the first time that Larka had said that out loud, despite thinking them on numerous occasions. It was unsettling and relieving to make the words real in the world.

Neither said anything for some while.

"Does he—does he, you know…" Novia's voice failed her.

Larka was going to say yes, but then realized how presumptuous it would be of her, and so instead yielded, "I don't know. I, I think so. He hasn't ever _said_ it, but…"

Somehow that admission made Novia's eyes grow soft. Larka wanted to shove her away and tell her that it wasn't like that, and that she wasn't like Novia, that she meant more, so much more, despite how mean that would have sounded.

She didn't, and she gained herself a lunch with Novia.

Forgiveness came, of course, reluctantly and slowly, much like Remus's forgiveness of Sirius the year before. Larka secretly thought less of Novia since her betrayal was so much less lethal than Sirius's mistake, but that did not dampen her eagerness to renew their old friendship. In fact, the mirrored progress let Larka know exactly where to look for the little signs of improvement, the extra steps towards forgiveness.

They might never grow into their old intimacy, but that was to be expected.

—

By the time the fourth winter final was over, Larka was too tired to deal with the family owl, perched on her bedpost when she got back to the dorm. It looked at her with familial pride and stuck out a leg dutifully. Larka untied her mother's weekly letter that always came at night, as if Mrs. Roxburgh expected more secrets to spill out if the letter was eclipsed by darkness.

The letters always contained at least one sentence inquiring after Sirius _Black_. This time it inquired if old Missus Yaxley spoke the truth when she said, in the strictest confidence, that he was _disowned_.***

Larka always wrote back the same reply: 'Sirius is eating well and thanks you for your kindness.' This time was no different.

Sirius snuck behind her as she was writing, an invisible hand holding her waist and a soft chuckle at her ear. None of the girls she lived with noticed how she slipped out quietly, despite being after curfew—or if they did, none of them said anything.

That night Sirius taught her how to scream over the Forbidden Forest, scaring birds into quick, flitted silhouettes against the darkened sky. Her grip on her broom was too tight and the cold wind cut her face like knives, but the exhilaration overtook everything else.

—

The fifth Quidditch match of the year was a great big spectacle.

Larka never watched Quidditch matches without the lurking fear in the back of her head, ever after Sirius hurt himself in one of these daft, boys-things matches. Each time he twisted his broomstick far too late and was about to crash, the crowd gave a cheer and Larka fought off another wave of nausea. Each time before he took a swing at the huge, menacing black balls sworn to take his head, the crowd gasped and Larka put her hands to her eyes and peeked through her fingers. Each time he hollered out a victory cry and made his broomstick wobble in a dance, the crowd hollered with him and Larka pursed her lips and tried her best to not give in to a fond smile.

It was Gryffindor versus Slytherin, and like all archenemy battles, it was quite a spectacle, watched with breathless wonder by the masses that barely fit into the audience section of the stadium.

It was a spectacle also because Sirius _did _break his ankle like Larka feared, when he crash landed into the Gryffindor stands after delivering a particularly energized Bludger to the Slytherin Seeker. That in itself was commonplace enough—players often took injuries, and it was a collateral damage that people expected.

What they didn't expect was for the brunette girl that Sirius was dating (_seriously_ dating, the gossip was, no pun intended), whose name and face escaped most of the audience members—she unexpectedly let out a loud, shrill shriek and appeared almost immediately next to Black, trampling over several innocent bystanders. She looked fiercer than any Bludger, and the trampled bystanders unanimously moved aside for her to carry off Black with a swish of a well-casted levitation charm.

(The Slytherin Seeker artfully dodged the Bludger, in case anybody still cared.)

The Gryffindor captain did not appreciate her taking away his star Beater, although the damage was minimal. They had a backup Beater, and besides, at this point of the game, even if the Slytherin Seeker took the Snitch, Gryffindor would still have won. Nobody was sure how many scores James had made, but it was definitely going down in the history of the Battle of the Houses.

Sirius, however, appreciated it very much, because he also cracked a rib and had trouble breathing (therefore telling anybody about it), and the bumbling captain would probably have cracked another if he shoved Sirius in a misplaced gesture of friendliness.

(Gryffindor did win, by the way.)

—

The sixth time Larka found herself questioning why Sirius was branded as the school's resident Casanova, they were in Dervish & Banges.

Contrary to the last bone in his body, Sirius never took Larka out on a date to Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shop, which was the norm for the teenage population of Hogwarts. Of course, Larka couldn't say she relished the frills and overbearingly scented candles, nor could she keep a straight face at the awkward, sloppy kissing that happened over cups of tea and coffee—but still, a magical _repair_ shop was the least romantic place that she could think of. Even Zonko's Joke Shop was perhaps more fit for a date, for at least there was entertainment there.

Really though, the lack of romance hardly surprised Larka by now.

Were there not a million moments, when the atmosphere was perfect and she was ready for some grand line, when Sirius said the most bizarre things? There were countless moments to strike her heart and make sure she never recovered from giddiness, and he wasted them all by talking about _silly, irrelevant_ stuff.

"_Look_ at that," Sirius whispered to her, pointing at the cauldron with a hole showcased in the window, with the hand that wasn't linked to hers, "I'll bet that's where the Leaky Cauldron got its name. Think Dervish and his bud Banges _nicked_ that thing from there?"

"Somehow I doubt that, Sirius," Larka brought her attention to the cauldron, puzzled at the star-shape of the hole at the bottom. "I'm pretty sure D&B got this before the Leaky Cauldron was built."

"Some witch must have dropped the Acid Starfish—absolute _nightmare_ of a monster in the Arctic Ocean, mind you—into the cauldron to make a love potion. For the Guard of the Ancient Treasures of Ramesses the Great. So that she could steal the treasure. Without realizing the great potency of the Acid Starfish, of course."

"King Ramesses the Great was from _Egypt_, Sirius, very far from the Arctic Ocean—you can't just throw around names that Remus mentions, without knowing anything about them."

"Precisely. Nobody would think to look there."

Larka smiled despite herself. She liked the silly, irrelevant stuff; and he always gave her the most perfect dates.

—

Seventh time was the charm, she told herself as she held her wand over the black furred Puffskein with a protruding leg. Larka had found the furry blob on the grounds, a pet abandoned by some heartless little wizard or witch, and had been trying to transform it into Moddey Dhoo the black dog. She wanted to show Sirius Moddey, but Moddey had disappeared for a long time, and Sirius wouldn't stop laughing whenever she brought him up. Larka was determined to show that Moddey was _real_, no matter if it was a lie or not.

Sirius really was a bad influence.

In any case, transforming a magical creature was far harder than Larka had imagined. Her latest, seventh attempt had ended poorly again. The pathetic looking Puffskein now had eyes like pewter plates along with its leg, and the eyes took up more than half of its entire body.

Sirius, of course, chose this particular moment to enter the abandoned classroom.

"Larka, I saw you on the Map and—Holy Merlin's hairy bleeding _balls_, what are you _doing_?"

He sounded far too delighted, Larka decided, and with a flourish she transformed the poor, abused Puffskein back to its original self. "I was trying to make him into Moddey—to show you," she grumbled.

"Aw, dear heart, you did not have to go to such troubles to prove your sanity," Sirius quickly closed any distance between them, and remained at a proximity that allowed him to make out exactly where the flush on Larka's cheeks began. "You threw that one away when you agreed to be my girlfriend."

He did have a point, Larka had to admit. "Still, it would have been nice to show you. Transfiguration really isn't a career possibility for me," she commented dryly.

"This ought to cheer you up," Sirius said and gave a grin that usually signaled mischief and maybe a few Slytherin kids crying.

Before Larka could understand what was going on, Moddey was standing right before her, pale gray eyes bright and eager, and started to lick her face maniacally.

Oh, she thought.

Then she thought how 'Oh' was the most frequent thought she had around him.

_Then_ Moddey turned into Sirius again and she awarded him with a strong kiss and wiped all his canine slobber back at him.

—

The eighth loose end that she tied up the month before the end of the year was Severus Snape. There were things that she might not have had the courage to do when she was first sorted into Gryffindor, but one day, she found Snape reading under a tree in the courtyard.

She approached him, despite Sirius's frown, and when she saw his face lift up to see who was disturbing him (a similar frown gracing his forehead), she smiled and said: "I just want to, um, say that... I'm... sorry...?" It ended up being more of a question than an apology but that wasn't a bad thing.

"Piss off," Snape spat out.

She had achieved the closure that she wanted, and went back to sooth the upset Sirius.

—

Nine months later came Sirius's graduation.

She got completely wasted for the first time at the Gryffindor graduation party.

If only James was nostalgic about the grand time that was Hogwarts last summer, then Sirius joined his rank this year. Afterwards, Larka faintly remembered climbing to the roof of some tower, somewhere in the castle that she couldn't find even if she was sober. She was stumbling embarrassingly because the floor couldn't make up its mind about which angle it wanted to tilt at.

There wasn't much else that she remembered, beside this one moment, when Sirius had said something awfully poignant. Larka wasn't able to recall _what_ he had said, not even what it was about, but what she remembered was that he gave her a tragic smile, the kind that boys gave before they knew what tragedy meant.

That was their last night in Hogwarts, so of course neither Larka nor Sirius wanted to go back to their respective dorms. Larka wasn't sure what she was ready for, but in the heady, thrashing giddiness of being drunk, she didn't think that much, and instead focused on being very, very quiet as she followed Sirius sneaking out of the Common Room.

(She wasn't that quiet, but most people were too busy trying to sneak out themselves to notice.)

The Room of Requirements was taken already, apparently lost in a battle of coin flip to James, so they made do with the Prefect's Bathroom. Although the water was warm, the tiles were cold, and Larka didn't want to use anybody's used towels, no matter how clean the elves scrubbed.

She woke up to the sun peeking into the windows from a sky bruised with red and orange. It was far too bright and far too early, but at least there was a pleasant lack of vomit. Her head was also in a manageable state, mostly thanks to the large amount of water that she didn't remember being forced down by Sirius.

The said boy was now Moddey, curled up around her for warmth. He woke up as she shifted to sit up, and in a flash Sirius was back in human form. His robes were mussed to the state of indecency.

"Did we…?" She asked uncertainly, careful to divert her morning breath.

"No," Sirius answered, not looking at her.

"Ah."

An awkward pause.

"There will be time," she said, quoting J. Alfred Prufrock.

"Of course," charming Sirius was restored, "You can't resist my charms forever."

Larka just chuckled nervously and kissed Sirius's cheek.

—

The last day of August was spent in Sirius's new flat with a shoddy, green-looking door in a building full of hippies who sang reggae songs to guitar and looked at Larka funny when she visited. Sirius loved the place, telling her that the sickly sweet smell along the staircase reminded him of youth, laughing at his own pseudo-pretension at being old.

She was on the verge of screaming every minute that day, and the slurred singing from below gave her a headache like a hammer thumping against her head. She fidgeted with everything and looked at Sirius with a desperation like she would never see him again.

He promised her that he will sneak to Hogwarts as Moddey and visit her, no matter how busy the Auror training made him. She would not have to go through even an entire month without kissing him, he promised.

When they made love, Sirius murmured 'I love you' into her hair, and Larka nearly wept out of relief.

—

It had been a very good year.

Larka felt like she was spending all the luck she had been allotted in her life in this year. It was as if she had a constant draught of the Felix Felicis elixir.

She should have known that the crash was bound to happen some time.

* * *

* Missus Roxburgh was born Miss Macmillan, and although it was not the Macmillan decree for blood purity, living in a pureblood family without an old manor made her yearn for one day owning an estate that was older than the sun (the manors weren't really, but the magic to make them were lost, and might as well have predated the sun). Of course, Missus Roxburgh was far too sensible to let this yearning get in the way of love, but that didn't mean she didn't pass it down to her daughter. Also the Black boy was really very handsome, the part of her that was still Miss Macmillan thought.

** Mister Roxburgh comes from an old line of Scottish wizards—in fact his father still told tales of moving from Selkirk near the borders every summer (Mister Roxburgh was as bored of these tales as Larka was, if not more so). There have been too many Muggle-born weddings and Squibs along the way for them to be considered Sacred and Noble, but his family had also been too poor for that. As such, he held a natural suspicion of the Scared and Noble.

*** Lest you think less of Missus Roxburgh, her next letter was a mountain of encouraging words, telling Larka how she should not let it faze her, and that the Roxburgh line could care less. Despite her gossipy nature, Missus Roxburgh was a romantic at heart.

* * *

A/N: A few minor changes to the story to make the events to follow more cohesive. Larka is now Larka Janet Roxburgh instead of Larka Jane Albion, and instead of _Hedda Gabler_ being the book that Remus and Larka read, it's now _Minstrelsy of the Scottish_ _Border _by Walter Scott. Also in the prologue, it is fixed so that Larka mentions Hogwarts, not Penelope her niece. The prologue and the first three chapters has been edited.


	22. And a Very Bad One Ensue

**Chapter 21**

**And a Very Bad One Ensue**

They weren't fighting, but that was only because Larka forced herself to be a saint.

He didn't come home yet again last night, and the morning brought Sirius to the oak door of their flat that had once embodied all the happiness in the world to Larka. He leaned against the door to close it fully, the click of the lock making him jump. His face was trapped between a guilty frustration (like a man who did something wrong but didn't expect to be caught) and a detached tiredness (like those Muggle photos of soldiers that they sometimes advertised as protests against war). This was not a time for more fighting, Larka knew, so she battled down her tears to cast a warmth charm on him and summon a mug from the kitchen that was ten steps away.

She wanted him to quit this, whatever this was.

It had taken her far too long to figure out that his fatigue and ill-temper did not come from the Auror job that sent envelopes of money the second Monday of every month. Ever since moving into the new flat—one bought with Uncle Alphard's generous bestowment—Sirius had been growingly engaged elsewhere.

When Larka met up with Novia one day, over tea and hot biscuits at the shop beside their apartment—the one that tried too hard to be quirky but had good baked goods nonetheless—she complained to her oldest friend about it. Novia had suggested Larka subtly cast a trailing charm, to see if he was seeing other women. Novia was always excessively suspicious of Sirius's apparent fidelity to Larka, one that spanned four years now. Larka did not appreciate Novia's distrust, but she did appreciate her trying to help.

Of course, Larka never did try out the charm, or act upon her complaints, except perhaps ask Sirius if his day went well a bit too hopefully and meaningfully. (Sirius never seemed to pick up the hope and the meaning, but Larka imagined that he did not want to talk about it, so she respected his wishes.) In fact, she never once doubted Sirius, not his commitment to her, nor the goodness of his engagements—which, until tonight, she had believed to be Auror-related engagements. As a result, she had developed a strong dislike for the Ministry that worked her boyfriend to the bones.

She hadn't ever doubted Sirius's words, mostly because he always seemed to need her wordless trust.

But she had bumped into his Ministry co-workers last night.

_She had seen the group sitting by the window of The Pub (it was really called Prudencia's Pub*, but that was a mouthful, so nobody took to it), when she was walking back from the grocery store. It was an old pub that looked like it shared a history with the founding of London—just as drab and gray, with a gritty blue board with its name nailed over the entrance. A chalkboard with illegible writing and numbers stood half blocking the way._

_Sirius had introduced her to all the potential Aurors in training, back when it was all still good._

_One of them—Karol, she was pretty sure—was waving at her, and so she went inside, wearing a soft, amicable smile that was her attire most of these days. The warm air instead felt foreign on her cheeks._

_"Wotcher, Larka" Karol greeted her._

_"Not much," she responded properly, "Aren't you guys on a training session?" Maybe Sirius was here to grab a drink with them after work, and that was why he was late for dinner. She looked over Karol's shoulder and around the room. Some dark figure was hunched over the jukebox with a bag of coins, and soon the song changed to Pink Floyd. A couple of the other Aurors were going to the bar to get another pitcher of lager. The bartender grinned at the approaching Aurors with a familiarity that suggested a long history of drinking here and generous tipping. There was no Sirius. Perhaps he was in the washroom?_

_Karol gave an easy laugh, a rare sound that Larka found that she missed, "What? Didn't Sirius tell you? Good gracious, that man!"_

_"What?" Larka asked in confusion._

_"We haven't had a training session in over a year! All of us graduated—and Sirius with honors!"_

_Larka felt her heart slowly dip into icy water.* That could only mean Sirius lied. For a year._

_"Didn't even know Aurors had honors," Karol continued his good-natured chat, oblivious to the state of Larka's freezing heart._

_"Very proud of him," Larka squeezed out, "Now I should, I should get back."_

_Before she could turn, Karol had grabbed her wrist._

_"Why don't you stay for a round? C'mon, most of these blokes are dying to know who tamed the wild boy Sirius."_

_"I really should be—"_

_"And," he paused just before his next words, but not consciously, "I haven't seen you in ages."_

_If Karol was slightly too enthusiastic about seeing her, or if his insistence at her staying was too friendly, Larka tried not to notice it. Instead, she welcomed the red lager that he poured for her and did not cry._

Larka had spent the night waiting for Sirius on the couch, running through every possible explanation in her mind. It had to do with the dark whispers of the Lord, battles fought underground, and people turning away from each other, she knew. She wasn't very privy to the going-on of the war, because nobody close to her kept her updated—especially not Sirius, who just kissed her eyes closed and mind muddled.

She had so many questions and accusations ready for him, and all of them had fallen through the moment that Sirius appeared, old-looking and shocked to see her curled up on the couch.

He knew she _never_ sat on the couch.

(Sirius had picked it up from the streets last year, taking a liking to its lopsided panda print. While Larka kept it in the living room as honorary furniture because it made Sirius grin like he just hexed Snape again, no amount of cleaning charms could persuade her of its acceptable hygiene.)

Sirius immediately knew that she knew.

"Later," Sirius croaked out, sounding like his throat was an old pipe clogged with blood. "Can't deal with this right now."

Which brought us to Larka being a saint and _not_ picking a fight right now. Instead, she made Sirius drink chamomile tea, scrubbed him with a cleaning charm that would have made Flitwick very, very proud, and tucked him into bed. He needed her to do this, she could tell. She could wash the sheets later.

(They never had that talk.)

—

The men came bursting into their home and took her hostage. If she had been more prepared, she might have taken down one or two of them with a practiced curse. It turned out that it was for the better that they came when she was stirring a pot of soup the Muggle way, because these were the _good_ guys.

Supposedly.

Larka had her few grudges against them, ranging from withholding jobs from werewolves, to the inefficient way they held on to their talented Aurors. But it was still indisputable that the Ministry of Magic was the good guys.

They brought her in, hands magically cuffed behind her back (in the case of unusual and violent emotions, they said), to the condemning of one Sirius Black. It was a condemning, not a trial, because there was never any doubt about his impending sentence.

She had no idea what was going on until some small, timid man told her in a sympathizing voice, that _James and Lily were dead, Peter was dead, Black killed them all, he has the blood of fifteen lives on his hands. _His words tore the air, each of them like a slap to her face, or snips of scissors that cut up her nerves. She stood without a word, eyes widened larger than plates, and more or less stopped breathing.

They snapped his wand in two, right before Sirius's eyes—before her eyes. The whole beautiful twelve inches of ebony and dragon heartstring. It only took one swift motion from the pudgy official—his face alit with self-righteousness and malicious glee—and the wand was in two, the bitter middle in splinters and ugly unevenness.

Larka could still hear Sirius whispering in her ear, '_Combative, magnificent for transfiguration, non-conformist soul: that batty old man really does know his wands_', his voice low and his breath tickling her earlobe and his pride growling in every syllable.

She watched it with a sort of passivity that she faced Snape with—the same sort that she faced what she had thought was certain death, in that unusually theatrical moment of her Hogwarts years.

_Nothing to be done_, she said to Sirius with her eyes, sad and pleading, as they dragged him away, howling and looking more like a werewolf than Remus ever did.

They hadn't really questioned her, or Remus, or anybody really, before deciding on his guilt. Larka supposed questioning wouldn't have made a difference—the evidence was quite clear, and the witnesses very consistent given how shaken up they were.

It's just—well, it was all so quick, with her standing disoriented and twiddling with the band of white-gold on her ring finger. Sirius was always off with some trip, coming back haggard and ready to forget everything in her arms, and once after a particularly bad one, he had proposed with a mad glint in his eyes. She of course, could never say no to him, even mad as he was. She had wanted at least a small party for their engagement, but Sirius said it was unsafe, so they just quietly bought a small, unadorned ring and put it on her finger. He had promised to make it up to her when it all ended. He had promised that their to-come engagement party would be too large for indoor halls. He had promised to take her to the tallest mountain in the United Kingdom and shout out their love.

He had promised a lot of things.

Larka got absolutely no closure out of his arrest. She shouldn't be thinking about herself at the moment, she knew. She should be crying out of happiness that war had implicitly closed. She should be thankful that James's and Lily's spirits were avenged. She should be sad that poor little Peter had nothing but half a finger left. But she couldn't help but feel detached and empty.

Remus came over and put a hand on her shoulder, as if he had any warmth to give. Larka shoved him away with force.

She really just wanted to go up to them calmly, say that she was as much a part of the schemes as he was, and request to be put in the same cell as Sirius.

That was before she learned that he was going to Azkaban.

Then she didn't know what she wanted anymore, not for a long, long time.

* * *

* Sirius first brought his band of merry Aurors here because he found it exceedingly funny that the pub was named after Missus Prudencia Roxburgh. He said it was a sign of her maternal endorsement of drinking. Larka found it less funny but went along with it all the same, and convinced herself of its humor later.

** Her heart also swelled with pride—Sirius was to become the best Auror the nation had yet seen, she was sure. But the imagery of a swollen, giant popsicle of a heart was not fitting to the tragic moment, so this was footnoted.

* * *

A/N: The part after Hogwarts is turning out to be much longer than I anticipated-I never planned on writing anything angst-ridden / sad, but it sort of demands its part. Larka is more indifferent to his crimes than one might suggest, because she had always cared more about Sirius than the cohesion of the Marauders, and now society. Still, she wouldn't go to Azkaban, would she?

Also, please review! It's disheartening to see the views count and yet nobody have anything to say!

Anything at all, as short as you'd like!


	23. Building a Lie

**Chapter 22**

**Building a Lie**

In the aftermath of Halloween 1981, Larka gave up magic and built a lie for her to live in.

She couldn't bear to see anybody, and moped in the flat—_their_ flat—in a way that some people would call selfish. But she couldn't bring herself to care about any of their menial, frivolous faces that were all too eager to believe in His guilt, and all too quickly painted him _Black_. She didn't even _believe_ in his guilt, but did not allow herself to ponder on that too much, as her belief changed nothing. She just couldn't confront their pity, as if she was somehow tricked by this conniving, evil man, she a sullied maiden of distress. She couldn't control her repulsion of their wands—her wand—their smooth singing of magic spitefully taunting her.

Larka didn't go to The Funeral. That was selfish too, the voices said.

She did try to visit Azkaban twice, though. The first time, she begged the officials in a degrading manner that she had never thought herself capable of, with tears and snot and babbling words and disgusting kneeling in the end. Of course they refused her. Later, much later, when she learned of Crouch's visits, she gave a bitter laugh that she learned from Sirius, and started hating the Ministry as much as Remus did. She went away from Azkaban in hysterics and despair. She didn't try to visit again for quite some time.

A couple of people came by to offer condolences and sometimes empty tears. None of them mattered. Hagrid tried to return the motorbike to her, but she couldn't even look at it without wanting to puke and light it on fire. She couldn't hate Sirius for abandoning, so she hated his bike.

Karol came by once. He brought _wine_ of all things, and had the least social tact out of any person Larka had ever met. And she thought she was fairly bad at social graces. He fumbled with words, then turned a darker color than the rosé that he brought, and Larka slapped his ruddy cheeks. Karol left without his wine, and Larka placidly put it in the fridge, as if the person slapping and shrieking like a harpy a moment ago was not her.

The moment she closed the fridge door was when she realized she couldn't live in their flat anymore. She looked around wildly, the curling wallpaper circling around her like a jungle of symbols. She couldn't play housewife like she did during the war anymore, not without a house to tend to and a man to pretend to be a wife to. She had originally taken up household chores to pay for her staying here. She had told her parents that she was working to become a Herbologist at the Royal Botanic Gardens at Kew, but in reality nobody was hiring in the middle of war, so instead she became the much-judged housewife. That obviously didn't work anymore.

The whole world—their whole lot—disgusted her so, _so_ much.

So naturally, she put the flat on the market, with an estate agent who had a bad hair dye and smelled like burnt biscuits. She felt like she owned it to someone, anyone, to take care of the finances, so she made sure the estate agent had a clear strategy. The estate agent was a Muggle.

In fact, the last wizard that she interacted with was Karol, and she intended to keep it that way.

She started living out of this cheap rental motel that had papery curtains that failed to keep out any sun and so she always woke up too early. The motel served stale bagels in the lobby before nine. The fat man who had late morning shifts felt bad enough for her to hand her some peanut butter squares that he nicked from the nearby diner. She didn't want to know how she looked to make him so sorry for her.

There was nothing to do—nothing at all, and she didn't want to talk to anybody. So she pretended to be a tourist on a budget and went sightseeing around London. Despite living in the Guildford for the whole eleven years before Hog—before school, she had never seen the sights of London.

Central Hall Westminster had free guided tours, and Greenwich Park didn't charge admission fees. She soon found all the free attractions, and went to more parks than she cared for (Regent's, Kensington, Richmond, names that she picked up instead of people). Too bad it was getting too cold for park walks. The museums were also free, but she didn't feel comfortable being trapped with so many people and so much flashing light, so she only went in the half hour after opening and before closing. It was enough time to try to decipher the beginnings and ends of lines in Turner paintings, and enough time to pretend she was the stoic and pensive ladies in Edmund Tarbell paintings, drawn to their domesticity and the suggestion of leisure. Tarbell's wife was a recurring figure, and she wondered what the woman was like. So when she got back to the motel, she sneaked into the dismal 'business center' with carpet stained by the death of a million bugs and an old computer that Larka figured out how to use after a few days.

This populated her life.

The nights were easier. She got a pack of piss beer from the bloke with the accent who ran the 24/7 convenience store down the street, and her low tolerance didn't betray her. A few gulps down, and she would achieve that warm, fuzzy feeling of _where-am-I _and _gosh-aren't-the-stars- pretty _.

She fancied herself a degenerate—she tried to be one, at least, and this was as far as she got.

(This was the closest she could be to _Sirius_. This was her way of living for him, the only way she knew how to worship him nowadays. When she was one beer down, she could whisper his name without manually twisting her thoughts another way, pleading vague pleas with some vague being high above.)

One day in December, she got a burning impulse to see Number One London, Apsley House. A sense of nostalgia ate her, because the stately glamour was what she thought Number Twelve Grimmauld Place in Islington must be like —and Malfoy Manor, and Greengrass Manor, and _every single one of them because Grimmauld was not special_, she hissed out to the paper curtains that flapped rather understandingly.

She spent six whole pounds on the ticket when she discovered that she didn't have the guts to evade the fare. The woman behind the counter—she had too-bright orange lipstick and a plastic flower in her hair, and Larka wanted to magic her away—asked for her name to print the ticket.

"Larka Black," she lied, and found one more way to be close to—

She wandered through the halls and felt like she knew what Nearly Headless Nick must have felt like, seeing people but passing through them like vapor. In Duke Wellington's bedroom, with Goya's collection of lunatics staring straight at her, Larka thought that she could hear the fate of Napoleon quietly speaking to her.

_Josephine**, _it said, _Josephine,_ it whined.

Larka staggered back, and the whispering subsided. Some unknown part of this room must have held too much ancient magic, she thought, and now she was getting drunk off of it.

The horror of love, Larka realized, was that just because he loved you didn't mean he wouldn't go ahead and betray you. She was sure of his love—for James and Remus and Peter and Harry and Mr. and Mrs. Potter and that tiny, growing bit for Lily; for those people at least, if not for herself. She could be sure because she had never seen anybody love quite so _fiercely_ before. And since she was sure of the love, she was also sure of its horror.

He couldn't have done it—at least, not like how they said he did, Larka thought desperately, and he must had had his reasons, it all somehow making sense in his head, because Merlin and Cassandra knew it didn't made sense in hers. Larka felt a little relieved at how easy it was to believe that, but also very sick.

It must be all that old magic in this place.

When she came back to spend another six pounds the next day, she was Josephine Black. The orange-lipped girl recognized her and gave her the concession ticket that was almost a whole quid cheaper.

Larka felt bad about her thoughts from yesterday, so she silently made the woman's hair-flower real. As an afterthought, she put a discreet permanence charm on it, so that it would stay fresh and blooming always.

That was the first bit of magic that she had done in a long while, and she hoped that nobody could smell the rusty magic that was like an iron left on for too long.

When she left half an hour later, she saw the woman blushing as the man who took over her shift touched the flower gingerly. He had acne scars and a terribly large nose, but Larka was more prone to notice the faults now than she was at fifteen. The sight made her at once happy and never wanted to touch magic again.

That night, the beer brought her the memory of Sirius touching her hair in the Prefect's bathroom, his expression similar to how she worshipped him. Larka couldn't tell if her mind painted that expression on him, or he actually wore it at the time. It made her yearn in a way that was familiar and unwelcome.

(She had to do _something_ about her life, didn't she? The options weren't many.)

She decided to go back to school, the only place that she ever felt like she belonged—to university this time. With the money that selling their flat made her, she applied to as many universities as she could. The transcripts were easy to forge, a skill that she picked up by watching—

Her major would be Astronomy. She hadn't studied Muggle physics, but she could opt out of intensive physics courses, and besides, she knew the theoretical side very well, and could trace the courses of the stars better than any of those physicists, she wagered. About a month later, she got a fat envelope from Imperial College London, almost choking on crumbs of peanut granola bar. That was perhaps the first time that she realized that she was going somewhere, that something was finally _happening_.

She found a flat in Peckham, as cheap and shady as the one that Si—

She commuted from Peckham to South Kensington. She had appeared with such wide-eyed loss and neediness that the landlady, an old woman who lacked affection from her own children, cut the rent. Normally, Larka would be offended at pity, but at that time, she felt like she deserved all the pity the world could lavish her with.

The flat was tiny, and did _not_ have wallpaper of any sort. Nor did it have a couch, and Larka trained herself to not feel disappointment bubbling slowly like sparkling water left out for a day.

In her spare time, Larka went to a couple of therapy sessions: the anonymous group meetings that were free and in the community center. The people were all slobbering, sobbing messes, and Larka wrinkled her nose at them. Tragedy was supposed to be more _dignified_ than that. She did meet a fellow wizard there though: she could feel magic cackling unstably in his hands every time he turned away from the group. Larka didn't think he even knew that he was a wizard.

She didn't go again after that. The meetings didn't help anyway.

University life, on the other hand, suited her. She excelled at astronomy in a way that she failed to excel at anything back at Hogwarts. She even made friends—they were all mild-tempered girls like Kelso Dorcas Meadows* (from a lifetime ago).

Larka avoided the men with gray eyes.

She replaced every single coin that she ever took from Uncle Alphard's account (she would always think of Uncle Alphard fondly, who had given her a few of the best years of her life). Imperial College was a wealthy university, and they offered her a stipend beyond paying for all her tuition, so she saved up the lunch money to put it in Gringotts. It made her feel like she achieved something. Every once in a while, when the pull to be Josephine Black swelled to be unbearable, she would go to Gringotts, bother the grumpy goblins to open up vault 711 so that she might count every single coin in there. With every coin she put into the bank, she felt an extra handful of peace restored to her.

Every coin was branded with a 'I believe in Him'—for what else could she give, beside her useless belief? She fancied that her faith glowed golden and silver and coppery with every single coin.

But life went on, didn't it?—Whether she believed in His innocence was irrelevant outside of the Gringotts vault.

When her four years of Imperial College ended, she was again faced with an overwhelming sense of loss, so she found a way to stay at university and hide from the rest of the world, by continuing her studies with a Master's program there.

During that period, she tried to visit Azkaban again, pretending to be an astrology researcher that nobody heard of. She was again refused, of course, but she did meet the physician there. She was first surprised to see a physician at all, for the idea of taking care of the inmates never occurred to her. Lloyd—the Healer physician—gave her a wry look and told her that not many people did have such an idea. He was only a visiting physician though, he assured her, and came whenever anybody was in serious danger of dying, if only to confirm death.

He promised to slip in her letter to Sirius, if she agreed to go out to dinner with him.

Larka did agree, without even hesitating. She found that she enjoyed the dinner far more than she thought she would. Lloyd was very knowledgeable and worldly (he knew all the inmates, and the old habits that didn't vanish with their sanity), and had been very kind and helpful (he swore that he delivered her letter, and that Black ate the paper to the last bit).

She didn't see him again. She would have hung up on him if he ever called, but he never did.

In the years that followed, Larka picked up her life around herself, slowly, and built a nest with it.

She met a nice, kind man at the University of Brighton, where she went to teach after graduating from Imperial College (it was a definite step down the academic ladder to go to Brighton, but she didn't complain). They both happened to commute on the same train from Brighton to Eastbourne, and were surprised to see the fellow train rider in the university cafeteria on the first day of work. He was five years older and divorced, no children. He was tall and had blue eyes but wasn't exceptionally handsome, not even for a man of thirty-two. He dyed his dark brown hair black the second week and she couldn't stop staring at the back of his head. He drank at least three cups of tea every day, with a lot of honey but didn't care what kind of tea he drank. He spoke with a slight drawl that was strange for a man who had never left East Sussex, but his parents were from Islington so that made sense. He had a slight beer belly that Larka liked to pat in the way that she patted a dog's round underbelly. He was familiar in strange ways—or different in familiar ways, she couldn't tell—and it was very nice.

They married in 1989.

It was a quick and hassle-free wedding. Larka didn't even buy a gown, and instead just hired one from the local bridal store. She was twenty-eight, hardly an age for frilly lace and fairy tales. She told him that she had been engaged very seriously with another man, but he didn't mind. He had been married once before, so none of it was too startling for him. They were wed in the university chapel, and there was some sort of symbolism to it, maybe. Larka felt like she never left school, not really, so it was only fair that she got married in academic holiness.

He reminded Larka faintly of Remus, who she always felt like she _should_ have liked. Not that she wanted to compete for his affections—she haven't talked to him since the third year at Imperial College—but he was the sort of boy that her parents would have approved of. Well, if one disregarded the werewolf factor. Even including that, he was probably a safer choice than—

They were placid, if lackluster, for the majority of four years. After the honeymoon stage, they turned into one of those couples who had a schedule for intimacy. Everything became routine, but it also ran very smoothly because of that.

He never once suspected of witchery, because Larka never once performed it. The years had washed away her habit of unconsciously reaching for her inner pocket. People just thought that she had a habit of swishing her wrists (and she swished them well, she swished them well…)

It was strange that it took the undoing of Sirius Black and everything else she knew for her to build a respectable life, but what part of her life wasn't strange?

Especially the part of an owl fluttering through the closed window and leaving a Sunday paper in her lap. She recognized the owl, even after eight years, as the tawny owl whose reliable personality reflected that of its owner, one Remus Lupin. On the front page was a forcibly stilled (magic upon magic, she smiled faintly, appreciating both his consideration of her lifestyle and the irony) picture of a gaunt looking man screaming, and Larka was confused for a moment, because she thought he looked familiar and her heart sped up at his face for some reason.

Then she saw the headline, and _Oh_, she thought, _he escaped. _She didn't know if she should be scared or put on make-up or if she was being egocentric.

(He didn't come find her, and as always the power of initiation was with him.)

Halloween of 1993, Larka repeated her masochistic ritual of counting every single coin in Uncle Alphard's Gringotts vault, and found exactly two thousand one hundred fifty seven galleons missing. It was a large amount by anybody's standard (even the Families were not doing so well these days), so Larka knew it was not her counting error. In fact, she counted thrice, and each time came to within ten galleons of that original number.

He was back, she knew.

* * *

* Kelso Dorcas Meadows also joined the Order of the Phoenix. Of course, not being a member, Larka did not know that, but the few times that Larka visited (back when they first graduated, and then later when Sirius was persuaded that it was safe for her to make such a trip) Kelso had seemed mellow and happy as always. It was only at her funeral, years later, did Larka learn that Kelso had grown into neither of those adjectives.

** Marie Joséphine Rose Tascher de la Pagerie was an exceptionally bright witch who still maintained many records in the field of Herbologyy, achieved mostly during her unhappy first marriage during the Reign of Terror. Her double roses were known to have remarkable magical properties that catalyzed many potions. She would have achieved greater things had she not married Napoleon Bonaparte. It was believed that she died of consumption after deciding to take up Potion-related Herbology again, the extreme morning chills unsuitable for a woman reduced to a weak emotional composition after the divorce, and Napoleon's marriage to Marie Louise's womb. Her name, however, was the last word of Napoleon's as he died on Saint Helena. In a goodhearted if misplaced gesture of respect, the Duke of Wellington took to cultivating the famed double roses in his own gardens, without knowing the slight hallucinatory effects of its aroma. This led to many urban legends as people claimed to see things under its spell.

* * *

Author's Note: Got pretty dark pretty fast, huh? I actually really liked this part, and although I want to go more into her life during these twelve years, it just felt like she wouldn't have much to say about it herself.

As always, please let me know your thoughts! Reviews are the life's blood.


	24. Domestic Scene

**Part Two**** – Sirius's Wake****  
**

**Chapter 23**

**Domestic Scene**

"What happened after Hog's Head? Where was Uncle Castor? Where is Moddey Star now? Did Uncle Castor _kill_ him?"

Larka ignored Penelope's shockingly morbid question, and instead wished that the little girl was a witch. Or anybody around her, _anybody_, so that she might tell the truth once in a while. Merlin bless Geoffrey Willians's soul for coming up with 'Hogwarts' in his book _How To Be Topp_, so that she might use the term without violating the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy*. Still, finding replacement names and constructing equivalent scenarios took more brainpower than Larka had to give.

At least she told the important bits. She had ended the story for children at the appropriately Disney moment, before anything bad seeped into their lives, not even the gentle foreshadow of badness.

"Every grown up person has a few stories like this inside them, and you will have them one day as well. Now," Larka whispered, "this is our secret story, okay?"

"I won't tell Uncle Castor if you tell us where Moddey is," Penelope bargained in a sing-song voice.

If this girl was a witch, she would be sorted into Slytherin for sure, Larka thought. "Well, he had to go away, to a far, bad place, because sometimes some people have to do that."

The doorbell rang.

It was Mabel, Castor's younger sister in her late twenties, coming back from the movies with her new boyfriend. She came in from the rain, withdrew her umbrella and hugged Larka gratefully. "You're a godsend, Larka, thanks again for taking care of the kids. They didn't bother you too much, did they?"

"No, not at all, they were wonderful."

Mabel made a noncommittal grunt, "Penelope usually gives me terrors. You have such a knack with kids, Larka," she tilted her head and put on a sympathetic look, "It's too bad that you and my brother don't have any of your own."

"How was the movie?" Larka switched the topic abruptly, "It was some French thing about time traveling knights isn't it?"

"_Les Visiteurs_," Mabel said in very bad French, "He's French, so he likes to make me watch their movies. I always say I didn't pay to go read at the theater, but," she gave an exasperated little puff, "men do what they want to do, don't they?"

"He just wants to show you his culture, I'm sure."

Mabel waved a hand dismissively, "He's not even _from_ France, just went to some prissy boarding school there. Figures himself a real Frenchman because of it; though I'll never admit that to outside company."

Larka's sister-in-law always had this enigmatic, gossipy air that made people feel closer to her than they were, and Larka was no exception. Mabel reminded her of the girl who had lied with them on the grass that summer at the Potter's manor. At first, whenever Larka met anybody, she always saw somebody else through them*. It became a sort of game for her, to find the Muggle counterpart of the people she used to know, a sort of Muggle doppelgänger, and this habit was as masochistic as her trips to Gringotts. But Mabel was just Mabel now, so Larka said pleasantly, "I think it's sweet of him to show you what he likes."

"Well, he knows that I have an obligation to like it." Mabel patted her pockets, and found nothing.

"Still, he must be happy to show you his passions."

"Ha! He doesn't have passions about _anything_; it's what I love about him. Do you have a smoke that I can borrow?"

"No, sorry, I don't—"

"Doesn't matter, I'm trying to quit anyway. All these posters about how _bad_ they are for you. Can't seem to just cut them off like that, you know?"

"Yes," Larka was surprised to find herself saying, "I know," and she wasn't quite talking about cigarettes. She considered summoning a roll for Mabel; Castor hid a stash under his nicotine patches, and she always pretended to not know he smoked one before bed every day. The _Accio_ almost rolled off of her tongue when Mabel sighed resignedly and turned to the door.

"Well," she said, interrupting Larka's relapse, "gotta face the little monsters at some point."

A small whimper came from the right as they entered the house, but was drowned in the pounding of the rain.

The first thing that Mabel said, as Larka shook off her umbrella and stretched it open, was: "It smells heavenly in here, Larka, what are you making?"

"Oh I have roast beef on the stove, for when Castor gets back."

"My, roast beef! It's a wonder how you manage to whip up things like that without it tasting like microwave frozen dinner."

Larka smiled and did not comment.

"Men, always complaining about _their_ day. Whenever I hear anything of the sort, I just tell them how you are a professor just like your husband—"

"Lecturer," Larka corrected her in a futile attempt. She wasn't tenured, but Mabel never remembered, nor cared to understand the difference.

"You teach, same thing, but you still take care of the house better than some of those _stay-in-bed_ moms."

Being a single mother gave Mabel a hard edge of bitterness of sometimes. Larka tried to not judge her for any of it. Mabel did have it hard, and despite her praises, Larka was not an exceptional woman, she knew. There was a reason for her abilities to take care of the house, like how she could pull off a three-hour roasting in thirty minutes.

It was simple: she had begun using again.

The idea of Sirius being out there, active, lurking, eyes flashing and gliding over the landscape like a bat, was not a comfortable one. She told herself that the reason she dusted off her wand after years of disuse was because the potential of a mass Azkaban breakout, and she would need her wand in such an apocalypse. The excuse was flimsy at best. The only thing in the world that could make her reject and take up magic was Sirius, and she knew it.

The image that assaulted her every night was of Sirius after they finished moving into their new apartment, pale skin glistening with sweat, dark eyes fiercely happy, a hundred smiles and laughs hanging off of his lips, a hand going through his dark hair that was newly trimmed. If Larka really focused, she could almost see herself reflected in his clear eyes, a half portrait of a young woman whose happiness matched his, forever suspended in the amber memory at the age of nineteen.

Using grounded her in reality, in a strange way. The concentration it took prevented her from seeing Sirius so vividly, and that was a good thing; it was helpful.

At first it was just a few small charms, ones that would barely be perceptible even to other wizards. She casted a small veil to make her lunch sandwich less noticeable in the communal fridge; a wave of her hand removed the lingering smell of moth balls from her winter cardigans; the window in her office had a ward that made rocks spiral away from it when the troublesome teens threw them. She never used magic with Castor around, not even the wandless, wordless type. The sneaking around made her feel like an alcoholic, or an underground agent. It was exhilarating, and her blood sang like she was underage again.

"Would you like to stay for dinner?" Having Mabel here also helped to ground her. "Oh, unless you've eaten before the movie."

"We went to Olive Garden, but I hardly ate anything, had to be a _lady_, you know." She looked a little antsy from the lack of tobacco. "I'd actually love to, but I wouldn't want to intrude."

"Nonsense, we haven't seen you in a while, all of us being so busy."

"You two being busy, you mean," Mabel teased, "I'm just off frolicking with some boy. My old woman's bones can hardly take it."

"You're not old," Larka chided.

"I look older than you, honey. I don't know _how_ you manage to preserve that face of yours, but I swear I will eat you whole if it does the same for me."

Well, magic had its other perks—witches and wizards did have a longer life span, but not all of them lived it out. "It's just the baths. I think it's the relaxing effect."

"Some of us are blessed with it all," Mabel drawled out dramatically as she finished hanging her coat up and went inside to greet her children.

Blessed was one way of looking at things, Larka thought.

Penelope and Pan hugged their mother in turns, and when Larka appeared from the hallway, Penelope whined, "I'm hungry Auntie."

"Soon, dearie, but we have to wait for your Uncle," then to Mabel, "Castor is being terribly late today," she apologized for him.

"No worries," Mabel said as she sunk into the armchair that Larka was in before. "_Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border_? Looks mightily dull."

"An old friend recommended it," Larka smiled at the memory of Remus—it took him almost three whole months to finish it because he kept getting distracted against his will. Sirius and James had devastating distraction down to an art.

"Oooh," Mabel giggled, "I know that look! Old lover?"

"What?" Larka blushed furiously, "No, no!"

The fluttering inside the bedroom nearby saved Larka from her embarrassment. She pushed open the door that was ajar and saw an owl scratching itself, standing on her desk. It stopped once it got sight of Larka, and puffed out its chest as if to pretend it had been waiting majestically all along.

Larka didn't recognize the owl, and did not question how it got in through the closed window. She took out a bit of chocolate from her drawers, allowed the owl to slowly peck the sweets off her palm, and let it out.

Once it was just a black dot against the dark velvet sky, Larka unfolded the parchment. The letter read:

_Dear Larka,_

_How very good to hear from you again! It has been fourteen years since you walked in Hogwarts halls, and they would be glad to have you back. Professor Sinistra welcomes you to join her in teaching the student masses of Astronomy. You will be in charge of Years Two to Four beginning September next year. We are honored to have you. Remus Lupin, an old friend of yours if I am not mistaken, will, I hope, remain with us as the professor for Defense Against Dark Arts, which he has kindly taken up this year. Your office and residence will be at the base of the Astronomy tower._

_Eagerly awaiting your arrival,_

_Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore_

She stilled for a long time, apparently, because Mabel pushed open the door behind her and inquired, "What are you doing here?"

"Oh, no, no, it's nothing," Larka quickly folded the parchment and led her out.

"Must be good news," Mabel said between bites of the brownies, "haven't seen you smile like that in," she paused her eating, "Well, I've never seen you smile like that." Then Mabel paused to figure out what exactly was wrong with what she had just said. It felt a bit strange, almost like a slow-born realization, but she couldn't tell you what it was.

"It's news alright," Larka admitted, "but I have to go over it with Castor."

"Who cares what he thinks! Is it good news for you?"

"Yes," Larka allowed herself to admit, "It is good news."

She only gathered the courage to send the letter this afternoon; it was written in a surge of passion when she came back from Gringott's on Halloween, but today was the day that she sealed it with trembling hands. She didn't question why _now_ all of a sudden she wanted to be back in the magical world again. The answer was simple and straightforward and didn't help anybody. She accepted her wants—she had exited the wizarding world with the same unquestioning commitment, and that had kept her life simple so far.

While cooking dinner, she burnt the roasted beef a little because she was trembling so much, but a mending charm fixed that nicely. The letter she sent was only a polite greeting with a subtle inquiry as to whether the Astronomy Professor position might be opening in the near future. Such speedy response! And he remembered who she was! This was why, Larka supposed, that Dumbledore was able to take such good care of the wizarding world.

"Very good news," she found herself slipping out.

A series of creaking came from outside the house—the gate to the garden.

"That must be Castor," Larka said, tucking the letter into the pock of her dress, "Let me go get him."

It was indeed Castor, who was very confused to find an owl feather in his wife's brown hair after she opened the front door. "Hullo honey; good lord that roast beef smells amazing." He noticed the extra coat as he took off his own. "Do we have company?"

"Mabel's here, she asked me to babysit the kids."

"Ah, my sister," he said, a delicate ridge developing between his brows.

"Now, now, Castor, you know that you should be cordial to family."

"Of course, honey," he said, coming in to kiss her cheek. He felt foreign against her skin today.

"Castor, stop holding up the dinner even more!" Mabel's voice came from the living room.

Larka gave Castor a stretched smile and led him into the room. Mabel had set the table, apparently, and she used the set of china that Castor's mum sent them as a wedding gift. They were very pretty plates, Larka secretly thought, a dark saturated green with pale ivy vines curling at the edge. The ivy curls reminded Larka of old wizard crests, the kind that appeared on Slytherin badges. (And familial crests for the Sacred and Noble.) She would have to keep in mind to not be prejudiced against any of the Slytherin kids, when she began teaching.

"I took the liberty to set the table, so that we could eat quicker," Mabel emphasized. Mabel always got along with her sister-in-law more than her actual brother.

"Mabel, these dishes were a wedding present from mother."

"And dishes are meant to serve food, Castor!"

"Now, now, children," Larka took the seat next to Mabel, "let's set a good example to the actual children." She left the head of the household seat to Castor—some traditions were too deeply bred in her to break.

Castor did not speak up again, but did not look happy either. He never felt comfortable around anything ornate, saying that he was a rural kind of guy who couldn't handle superfluity.

In the middle of carving the roast beef, Larka cleared her throat and announced, "I just heard back from this university that I applied to—they're taking me."

"That's wonderful," Mabel said in a voice that sounded more appreciative of the meal.

Castor put down his utensils. "I didn't know you were unhappy with Brighton."

"It's not that I'm _unhappy_ precisely; it's more like," Larka searched for words that would be diplomatic, "… I just would like a change in the environment, is all."

"Oh." He didn't pick up his fork and knife. "Which one is it?"

"Oh, the uh, the University of Aberdeen."

"That's a nice uni," Mabel commented.

"It _is_ a nice university," for once Castor agreed.

"Yes."

"Bit far though," his objections began. The drive would be ten hours, too long. A flight would be approximately four hundred and fifty miles.

"A bit."

Mabel for once kept her quiet, and let them go at it. It had nothing to do with her, and she was quite content to knife through some more roast beef and watch the show.

"I had no idea you applied," his tone slightly more accusatory now, but still carefully maintained, very mindful of their audience.

"It was a long shot, so I didn't want to bother you with it."

"It's a really long commute from Brighton. You would have to stay there for the weekdays."

Larka moved a green been on her plate, "They offer accommodations for the faculty. All school year."

"Oh." The brother and sister both voiced.

"Right, so …" she toyed with her food some more. It must be getting cold by now, maybe she should have casted a warmth preservation charm? How did the incantation for that go again?

"So you'll be living there," he said matter-of-factly.

"Yes."

"When?"

"Starting next September."

"Well. That seems settled," he said with only a trace of grouchiness. Castor prided himself on being a very accommodating man, and if his wife had her heart set on it, there was no point in raising a domestic row over it in front of children.

"Well, more or less." She was going no matter what, Larka knew. Once Sirius Black was back, she couldn't keep away from that world anymore—and it didn't even have anything to do with her love for him once upon a time. He was just too much of her entire life for her to pretend as if nothing had happened. In a way, Sirius had made who she was, even when he was in prison.

Dinner was more silent and tense than usual.

"The roast beef is quite good," Castor offered finally, as if trying to prove that he was a better man.

"Thank you," she said, and she wasn't thanking him for the compliment to her charmed cooking.

And that was that.

* * *

* Again, this was not strictly in the spirit of the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy, and hereby disclaimed against all potential lawsuits. It was just dodgy enough that it would make a case in court, and who in their right mind would sue the Blacks anyway? Besides, narrative licenses must be allowed; although Hog's Head sounded less romantic than Hogsmeade, Larka realized after making it up, and was also the name of the local butcher shop. Moddey Padfoot would have sounded entirely too made-up though, so she went with Moddey Star—not many people knew of the obscure myth of Moddey Dhoo in any case. Quidittch was an easy choice: football. The Houses were renamed to the Lion, Eagle, Badger, and Adder.

** It was a strange sensation, for Castor was Remus's counterpart, and Mabel was Remus's girlfriend's counterpart. The incestuous tangle made Larka queasy at her wedding (only because of the incestuous tangle, she maintained.)

* * *

A/N: I had originally wanted to keep her husband nameless, but then realized he's got to be a big part of her life, right? And just think of the confrontation between him and Larka/Sirius(?) that's coming!

This brings us back to the prologue. The timing, since one reviewer had asked me, would be sometime after October 31 (Halloween '93) but before December 21. In my head, this would be Dec 6 (St. Nilcolas Day), although the actual date doesn't matter too much.


	25. A Roundabout Discovery

**Chapter 24**

**A Roundabout Discovery**

"Hello mum, dad," the prodigal daughter said, engulfed in a hug from both Mr. and Mrs. Roxburgh.

Castor had dropped her off at her house, and she told him that her dad would take her back—it took them over two hours to get here, despite it being only a bit more than an hour's drive. Castor drove slowly and carefully, and it drove Larka crazy.*

"We're so glad you decided to join us for Winter Solstice, dearie," Mrs. Roxburgh cried out, her cheeks moist with tears shed for her baby. She did not expect a son-in-law who was perfect, no, but at least he could be more handsome! Why, when her baby girl was young, she was so fetching—just look at how she dated that Sirius Black! A deranged killer he might have been, but Merlin forbid anybody from denouncing his looks! This Castor man was a _Muggle_ too—not that her husband and her harbored blood supremacy feelings, but dear goodness, how her poor baby did the housework, she did not want to know!

"I should have come sooner," Larka said, slightly stiff in her mother's embrace still.

"What matters is that you're here now," Mr. Roxburgh consoled her.

This was the first time she had seen them since her wedding—which was the only time she saw them during her self-inflicted banishment from the wizarding world. She had occasionally written to them, listing her awards in university, the job offers, and sometimes the blokes that she met**. They always replied with regular mail, out of respect for her choice—even Mrs. Roxburgh, who cried for weeks after her little baby disappeared and slept in Larka's old room, did not once show up to confront her.

They went inside and Larka was hit by a wave of nostalgia: the Roxburgh household was not wealthy by any means, but as an old wizarding family, they had centuries of middle-class income to squander on decorations and tradition. She would never inherit a sword or a crown, or anything remotely as magical as the Sorting Hat, but she had clockworks, manuscripts, china, self-wicking candles, mundane versions of the cornucopia, and one house elf, Twiggy.

It was nice to see the fat, brown goose carving itself.

"Young Mistress! Young Mistress!" Speaking of Twiggy, the little house elf nearly sprung upon Larka, but withheld herself and threw herself at the wall instead. "Young mistress is back! Oh Twiggy is sorry that Twiggy's cooking could not keep Young Mistress! It was all Twiggy's fault, Twiggy should not have made banana bread without chocolate chips!"

"Twiggy," Larka started to patiently and fondly explain, "Your banana bread wasn't what made me go away. It wasn't your fault."

"We've been trying to tell her that for _years_ m'dear," Mr. Roxburgh said while puffing out smoke from his pipe. "Never seems to stick with her."

It was also nice to smell her father's pipe again—she always thought it was bubblegum flavored when she was little.

"If you keep punishing yourself," Larka threatened as Twiggy was about to threw herself against the wall again, "I shall have no other choice but to give you a _sock_."

Twiggy gasped in horror and promptly stopped.

"She always listened to you more than anybody else," Mr. Roxburgh observed.

Larka was about to object when Mrs. Roxburgh said indignantly, "Oh stop it! My baby girl is home and this is _my_ moment, stop ruining it!"

So Larka and her father followed Mrs. Roxburgh meekly to the dining table.

They had a side platter of lamb shoulder, and sautéed Brussel sprouts with chestnuts. Her favorites. The lamb was done beautifully, its sides with a hint of char and the intramuscular fat and collagen yielding to the knife—the sort of cooking that Larka never achieved***. This was the moment that Larka came closest to weeping.

Nothing remarkable happened until the dessert was about to be served (banana bread with the perfect density and dark chocolate chips, Twiggy was proud to present).

"I ran into Mr. Nott**** on the way to Gringott's today," Mrs. Roxburgh spoke as she finished the last bit of the overcooked goose. Mrs. Roxburgh believed heavily in overcooking meat to be rid of all germs and fat. When nobody picked up the conversation, she looked from her husband to her daughter expectantly, "Well? Don't you want to know what he said?"

"What did he say, honey?" Mr. Roxburgh asked indulgently.

"He has been so lonely since his son went away to Hogwarts, poor soul. Whoever decided that it was a good idea to separate families like this? Now your father and I don't agree with his political beliefs, but the old man needed somebody to talk to so badly that he stopped me on my way in. His niece has two daughters now too, wonderfully good marriage even for the Notts—the _Greengrass_ family, Larka, have you _seen_ their manor? It's so _big_ and the ward against outside weather covers their _entire estate_."

"What did Mr. Nott say, honey?" Mr. Roxburgh reminded his wife gently.

"Oh right, right. He said that _He-Who-Won't-Be-Named _escaped."

Both Larka and her father dropped their eating instruments rather loudly.

"Wh—what? _You-Know-Who_?" Larka gasped out.

Mr. and Mrs. Roxburgh both moved to cast silencing spells over their dining room, Mrs. Roxburgh making extra caution to pray to Merlin quickly. "No, no, no," Mrs. Roxburgh waved wildly, "_Don't say his name_!"

Back in the day, the Maraudaers never resorted to a code name for an old nutcase, even one that they were all secretly terrified of. When the talk of Voldemort's rising began to be a serious issue, she had been young and impressionable enough to allow Sirius to speak the Dark Lord's name. They quite a few rows about her drawing the line at speaking his name herself, but he let her be after a year, when it was apparent what evils he was capable of.

An old fear ran through the entire Roxburgh household.

"There are whispers of him being _back_ you know," Mrs. Roxburgh whispered, "Mr. Lovegood assured me of it. While normally I have my reserves about his sources, this time he was so _certain_ that I couldn't help—"

"He's _always_ certain, mum."

"Do not interrupt your elders, young lady!" Mrs. Roxburgh said to a Larka who was no longer a young lady.

"Sorry," Larka mumbled meekly, and was amazed at how easily she slipped into the old life.

"He's not the only one saying it," Mrs. Roxburgh defended her view, after deflating a little.

"It's just a rumor, mum, didn't you see the statement that the Ministry of Magic released the other day?"

"Don't know if I quite trust old Fudge anymore," Mr. Roxburgh pitched in, after casting a double silencing spell on their house.

"Mr. Alastor also said it, and he does not spread baseless rumors," Mrs. Roxburgh stated triumphantly.

"_Moody_ Alastor?" Larka asked incredulously, "How in the nine circles of Hell did you run into _him_?"

"Language, young lady! I have a wide network, I'll have you know," Mrs. Roxburgh huffed, "And even a man like Mr. Alastor needs a haircut once in a while."

In fact, Larka could not even imagine Moody Alastor in a barber's shop, with a towel around his neck, let alone chatting amicably to an aging woman. It was such a mundane and pedestrian scene, and he was known for his paranoia and well, moodiness. Larka wasn't sure if she was more surprised by his willingness to chat or her mother's fearlessness of his glass eye. Mrs. Roxburgh was an easily frightened woman.

"In any case, Mr. Alastor said it, and I trust Mr. Alastor," Mrs. Roxburgh continued assertively, forgetting that even she would have preferred that Voldemort's return was just a rumor and no more.

"If it's any consolation, Albus confirmed that it's just a rumor." He did nothing of the sort, just short of confirming the opposite actually, from her communication with Remus, but her parents didn't need to worry about it just yet.

"Albus?"

"Albus Dumbledore, the Headmaster."

"I _know_ dearie," Mrs. Roxburgh said exasperatedly, "I love the dear old man, the very image of wisdom and fortitude. I wish he would find some nice witch to settle down with, although I suppose he is married to the castle."

Larka did not mention how when she visited Remus after the last full moon, the older professors in the lounge gossiped about Dumbledore's questionable sexual orientation, before Minerva shushed them. They later took up talk of Minerva's late husband, and his thrice failed proposals. Larka drank her tea quietly during that time, and wondered how Remus soldiered through it all.

"And to think, you're on first name basis now with Mr. Dumbledore!"

"He insists all professors be an equal to him, even the incoming ones" Larka said proudly, although she herself was still somewhat uncomfortable at the thought of calling her old Headmaster by his first name.

"A good man, and good people are hard to find," Mr. Roxburgh nodded, politely joining the conversation although he was keen to get through the goose so that the dessert can come.

"Our little Larka is so grown up now," Mrs. Roxburgh said, tears gathering in her eyes.

"Ahem," Mr. Roxburgh cleared his throat as Larka looked down at her plate, "So who _were_ you talking about escaping then?"

"Oh yes, yes," Mrs. Roxburgh dabbed the corner of her eyes, "Cor, I wasn't talking about You-Know-Who, I was talking about He-Whom-I-Won't—oh bugger," she gave up and tossed the napkin onto the table, "I was talking about _Sirius Black_."

Mr. Roxburgh cleared his throat again, uncomfortably.

Larka tried not to rub her temples. This was why she did not visit them in person over the years. She wasn't sure if a pretense of Black's nonexistence was better, or _this_, this skulking around his name like it was just as bad as the Dark Lord's. (In a sense it was, wasn't it?)

She picked up the forks and knives and continued making her way through the goose. "Oh that is old news, mum," careful to preserve her voice to sound like she was talking about the cashier at the grocers that she frequented.

"Not that he did escape, silly dearie," Mrs. Roxburgh clucked, "Mr. Notts went on and on about how Black was a blood traitor to the end. Said all the Families knew this, that it was incredibly ironic that Sirius Black of all people had been branded as a follower. Although I'm afraid I didn't quite follow what he was saying, Larka dearie, he just kept saying blemish to family tree finally put away—"

Her mother went on, but Larka has stopped listening.

It was good to have some sort of proof—as meager as it might have been—that she had been right all these years. Well, as much proof as a perhaps crazed old gaffer's rambling, but Larka took what she could. Mr. Nott _was_ a bit gone in the head now, wasn't he, to forget that the Roxburghs was not one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, and that Larka once engaged to Sirius Black.

Of course nobody probably remembered the little Roxburgh girl who stood so timidly beside Sirius Black in all the school pictures, who disappeared into the lost world of the Muggles just like how Sirius disappeared into Azkaban and Remus disappeared off the grid and James disappeared into death and Peter disappeared into—well, she didn't know where Peter disappeared to.

"—And of course, he then started talking about the whole Hogwarts thing!"

Mr. Roxburgh patted his wife soothingly, and gestured to the cooling meal.

"Hogwarts? What Hogwarts thing?" Larka asked, her interest finally piqued.

"How Black broke into the castle! Gave the Weasley boy a fright alright. Don't know why they didn't see it coming, with Black going on and on about Hogwarts in that awful place."

Larka's knife fell again, and this time she didn't pick it up.

Of course, of course, of _course_. It made sense now, why Hogwarts was surrounded by Dementors. Remus had never mentioned anything about Sirius in his letters, but he probably thought he was protecting her in a way, the way _Sirius_ tried to protect her when the War broke out. _Hogwarts_. Did he want to see Harry or Remus? It didn't matter, he was _there_, and for the first time in twelve years, he was reachable.

"—Scratched it into the walls with his nails! Oh do you remember the Weasleys, Larka dear? I met Molly the other day, and my had she put on some happiness around her waist!—"

_She had to find him._

"Mum, dad," she said breathlessly, standing up in the middle of Winter Solstice dinner as a well-mannered lady never should, "Sorry about it, but all the talk about Dumbledore reminded me that he had asked me a favor. I'll be back tomorrow."

And with a loud crack, she disappeared.

* * *

* Strictly out of the love of efficiency, _not_ because she still expected (at the tip of her heart) speedy motorbikes rides that were hazardous to the health of the general public. She hated motorbikes anyway.

** Those accounts of meeting blokes were sometimes false, in the interest of keeping her mother out of her hair about marriage and becoming an unseemly spinster.

*** This was why house elves were an essential part of any self-respecting wizarding family. Twiggy always cooked the lamb to Larka's tastes, allowing her an escape from her mother's overcooked, dry meats. Twiggy used to slap herself for disobeying the Mistress's precise orders, but Larka threatened her so many times against bodily self-punishments that Twiggy more or less grew more frazzled and less prone to violence. The habit of self-inflicted damage ran rampant in the wizarding community.

**** The Nott male line had technically ended with the death of Anise Asphodel Nott's father. The Mister Nott in conversation here was Mister Pascal Nott née Burke, who was forced to drop his own surname when he married. The question of lineage was always a fuzzy matter to the purebloods—convenience ruled technicality occasionally.

* * *

A/N: Larka seems to be far more heartless to her parents than I wanted her to be...there's no love lost between them though, really. It's just that the less they know about her life the happier they'd think she is, I think. Winter Solstice was December 21st in 1993.

My mom is _exactly_ like Mrs. Roxburgh, and Larka behaves far better than I ever could.


	26. Silver-Tongued

A/N: I think Harry and the gang stays over for Christmas during their third year—if I'm wrong, please bear with me, and just pretend that the students leave after Winter Solstice.

* * *

**Chapter 25**

**Silver-Tongued**

_A blight upon Hogwarts and its paranoia against Apparition_, Larka thought vehemently as she ran from Hogsmeade, her lungs on fire from the cuttingly cold air and her calves cramping from lack of use.

She couldn't very well Apparate into Hogwarts, so instead she made do with Hogsmeade. She ended up feeling very unsettled (much like being seasick, she imagined, although she really had no seafaring experience to compare to) in the Shrieking Shack. The moment she steadied herself onto her feet, she slipped out the Shack and looked over the expanse of Hogsmeade, its streets dead quiet on Winter Solstice. It was not a white Christmas yet, but it was cold enough to be one, and plenty of days for it to snow. The meandering road was as weedy as Larka remembered it, with low-rising shops along each side, indiscernible blobs of black right now. A crow alighted on a branch far off and started croaking for its mates futilely. Her boots clicked against the stony, frozen ground as she ran, making blunt noises ring through the thin crisp air of midwinter.

She soon found Honeyduke's, and quickly slipped out her wand (ten inches of larch with a single unicorn hair along its center, oh she had missed her baby). It took her three tries to break the lock, and Larka blamed it on the sensible security of Mister Ambrosius Flume*, choosing not to think about how rusty her spell-casting was.

Although she couldn't recall exactly where the trap door was, her body's mechanical memory took over and she fumbled her way to the tunnel, dark and dingy as always. The tip of her wand lit up and she tried her best to pour as much magic as she could muster to increase its brightness, but she could still only see four steps ahead of her.

How did she never realize, she sighed, how awful it was to do this alone. She was always too drunk on adrenaline and illicit romance to notice how the ground was sticky and how there was a faint sound of something crawling. The ceiling was lower than she remembered as well, and the walls more closed in.

The end could not come soon enough, and Larka was never happier to be standing beside the humpbacked statue of Gunhilda of Gorsemoor**.

The castle was well lit, in direct contrast to the tunnel, and warm and smelled like too much food.

Larka wished she was teaching here already. She wasn't a very Englishwoman she supposed, didn't prefer nose-biting cold weather to a languid sweltering day.

She summoned a robe—her mum didn't move anything in her old bedroom, she knew—and it flew into her face after a few minutes, the dust on it making her cough in the empty halls, the hacking resonating between the walls and scaring Larka. Heavenly Merlin, she really needed to practice her charms.

After donning a more respectable and witch-like look, she walked through the halls of Hogwarts, and realized that she didn't quite know which classroom she had just been next to. It was somewhere on the third floor, if memory served her correctly.

Now, how to get to the faculty dorms…

—

"Hullo there, Remus."

He really should have been more surprised to see her, but his Marauding years had taught him better. "Hullo, Larka," Remus returned pleasantly to the girl—now woman, he reminded himself—that he still recognized without any difficulty. Her hair had become lusher though, smoothed to fewer frizzes and a nice chocolate shade. "Would you like some chocolate frogs? Albus insists that I have an unlimited supply—suppose it's one of the faculty perks."

"No—" she thought of the dampness that still clung to her bones, from the trek through the tunnel, "Actually one or two would be appreciated."

The years have not been kind to him, she realized, and his robes were more tattered than they ought to have been. Although there were no telling streaks of grey in his hair, his skin took on a greyish tint that seemed more permanent than a monthly phase. Larka wished that she wrote back to Remus earlier than this year.

As he tossed her two frogs, she said bluntly, "You don't look very well."

"Moon in a couple of days."

"Ah," she nodded understandingly.

A bit of a pause, during which Remus decided that what the hell, they should still be friends enough, "And…living is…hard."

"Yes, yes it is," she agreed wholeheartedly.

They both gave a moment's silence to that meaningful exchange.

"What brings you here on Winter Solstice eve? Say," he squinted at her as if to make sure she still existed when he looked very hard, "You're not the Ghosts of Christmas Past, are you?"

His allusions to Muggle stuff always escaped everybody except the select few, but Larka thought she got the gist of it. "No, Remus, I'm quite real."

"Ah," he seemed satisfied with that, "So some tea then?"

What she had to say was incredibly urgent, but Remus always had that calming effect on everybody that reduced even the most alarmed person to a laid-back good humor. So some of her flailing urgency died, and she accepted his offer with good grace.

Once green tea was poured and an assortment of chocolate animals was consumed, Larka returned to the reason she came running here.

"Sirius," she gushed out, the name sounding unfamiliar in her throat after years of disuse, yet gliding out so easily in an oddly comforting manner, "Is innocent."

"Larka," Remus said in his professor voice, "You have no idea how many times I reached that same conclusion myself—actually, you probably do—but," he slowed down his dialect, "It's not a logical process. We both _know_ that he—"

"Codswallop!" Larka cursed, "We _know_ nothing. He was framed; he's innocent! My mum ran into Nott and he said—" she tapped her foot irately, for Remus was not _listening_ to her, not wholeheartedly, "He said that it's been a joke among the purebloods how we took the blood traitor and made him a good pureblood son."

"He said that?" Remus looked unconvinced.

Larka was a little annoyed at Remus—why couldn't he drop everything he believed in the last twelve years and just go with this? It made so much sense! And although she had naught but her mum's words of nutty old Nott's words, it was a convincing case nonetheless. "Well, not in that _exact_ phrasing—actually I don't know his exact phrasing, since my mum—"

"Look, Larka, I know that you hurt, and believe me, we all—"

"Cor, Remus!" Larka slammed her palm down on the desk. Her hand hurt like a salamander was just born in flames there, but she had a message to get across. "You're not in a position to talk down to me. You were more traumatized than me by that, that Halloween, when everybody you knew died on you in one fell swoop. Don't retreat into your shell that the very person we're talking about here cracked you out of in your first year here."

"You weren't even here my first year," he took the easiest and least effective counter.

"I've heard the stories, okay, because believe it or not Sirius and I _talked to each other_. He was no traitor to your cause and you _know_ it. Or you should, at least. We all should…"

This was the exact moment that Harry Potter, beloved Savior-to-be, chose to knock and push open the door that wasn't locked like it should have been.

"Professor?" he said cautiously, with the voice of a thirteen year old James Potter.

Larka looked at the remnant of an old life standing and breathing before her. "Harry," she breathed out.

The boy looked confused, but soon he gathered that this was yet another woman who wanted to tell him how he looked _exactly_ like his dad but with his mum's _exact_ green eyes. He awaited that sentence.

"Harry Potter," she whispered, "I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry." She apologized, because Sirius wasn't here to, and somehow she felt like she shared a portion of his guilt.

"What for?" He asked, back to confusion.

"For life, the universe, and everything," Larka replied. Then deciding that she should sound less like a barmy Divination believer for the sake of teaching here next year, she added, "Mostly that you will have to take Astronomy from me next year. Not too late to drop out though."

"I'm sure that you are better at Astronomy than I am at Defense Against Dark Arts," Remus said wryly. It was perhaps a bit too sarcastic for the safety of his secret, but the moment was too perfect to pass up.

"We'll manage, though," Larka said.

There was an awkward pause in which none of the three present was quite sure what exactly she had meant, or if they were overthinking her words.

"Professor," Harry began once he judged the pause to be pregnant enough, "Professor Lupin," he added, just to be clear since the incoming Astronomy professor seemed a bit too much like Trelawney. "I just dropped by to wish you a merry Solstice."

Remus looked touched at this sentimentality. "Thank you Harry, that's very thoughtful and nice of you."

Of course Remus finished his sentence with an encouragement of character development. Larka always thought that Remus would make the perfect father figure. She momentarily forgot how annoyed she was with him at this heartwarming sight, and gazed at Remus warmly.

"Sorry, er," Harry continued with hesitation—and he should have been more hesitant actually, because he said: "Sorry if I was interrupting anything."

Larka wanted to smack his teenage, hormone-driven head. They were sitting across each other, with a large, oaken desk between them that might have been the English Channel, drinking _tea_ for Merlin's sake, and Harry Potter thought there was _tension_ here? How very much his father's son.

"No you weren't," Remus assured him, and he was very good at being assuring too, if Larka might add. "Please convey my good wishes to Hermione and Ron as well as other student you might care to."

"Thank you, sir." Ah, the boy had good manners.

"Would you like to stay for tea?" Remus asked amiably, and thus chased Harry out.

"Er, I think I should get back, sir, not that," he was getting flustered, "I wouldn't like to—not that I don't enjoy spending time with you, sir, but it's just that—"

"No worries, Harry," Remus chuckled.

It was very hard to stay angry at Remus when he was being so paternal and understanding, Larka sighed.

"Thank you, sir," Harry repeated himself, and quickly backed out. "Oh, and merry Solstice to you too, ma'am," he said before he left.

The room was cozy and silent for a good two minutes before the two of them remembered what they were arguing about before the intrusion. Tiredly, they stared at each other, waiting for one of them to continue the row.

This was her fight, Larka decided, so she iterated for emphasis, "Sirius is innocent."

"As much as I would like to believe you—and really, I would, you know how much I would—I just—"

"You know what I'm saying makes sense. You're just too scared to hope for it."

"Hope isn't the point of contention here—"

"He's a _dog_, Remus, his Animagus is a _dog_. _Loyalty before death_." Larka was not used to cutting people off so frequently and assertively, but she did it with dignity.

"Larka," his job was always to be the realistic one, wasn't it—and such a thankless, unsolicited job it was, "I don't know how much you know back then, or now, but Sirius—Black, Black was the Secret Keeper."

"Stop it, Remus," Larka was beginning to get angry again, "Just because you don't believe me doesn't mean you can start telling fibs."

"I'm not, Black was James and Lily's Secret Keeper."

Larka didn't know how he could say all three names in one breath and not die of a heart attack. She sure was on the verge of one right now.

"So when Voldemort…" she cringed, "We immediately knew who was the rat." He frowned slightly, "The traitor, I mean. No offence to Wormtail, may his soul rest in peace."

Larka was tempted to slam her hand down once more, but didn't think it was wise given how much it still hurt from one hit. "Oh please," she rolled her eyes and tried to put as much sarcasm and meanness into her voice (unsuccessfully, if truth be told), "You don't really think I'd be so stupid."

"What?"

"That's a stupid lie to tell me. Because that would have been a stupid, stupid idea," Larka impatiently hurled out the words, angry that he should start lying to her to make the argument go in his favor, "Of course everybody will assume that James would use Sirius as a Secret Keeper, being best buds and attached at the hips and all, so that kind of defeats the purpose of a _Secret_ Keeper, doesn't it."

"But I knew, Albus knew, the both of them _told_ me."

"_Secret_ Keeper, gosh, the point of a Secret Keeper is in its secrecy. Look Remus, Sirius would have died for you—don't interrupt—all of you would have died for each other. And you know what, nobody asked, but _I_ would have died for Sirius as well." She was just ever the slightest resentful of never being trusted with any information. It was for her own good, she knew, and the cocoon was comfortable while it lasted, but that didn't stop her from being resentful. "I don't know what exactly happened, but I know, I _know_, _I know_ that he's innocent."

This being forceful thing was really hard to keep up, Larka thought, and hoped that Remus would break down soon, because she was starting to sweat from all this exertion.

"People saw him blow Peter up, Larka, there were witnesses to his crimes," he sounded like he was explaining something to a small child, perhaps Penelope or Pan.

"Then I would rather believe that Peter sold James out rather than Sirius. Sirius had always been the do-before-you-think type, and would take up vigilantism in a heartbeat if nobody was there to stop him."

"Peter adored James, though, for so many long years. He wouldn't even have the guts to sell James and Lily out."

"So you believe in Peter's adoration more than Sirius's? Sirius loved James more than anything in the world—he loved all of you with that fire."

Remus was silent for a long time, and Larka was thankful for this period of rest, and finished her tea quietly. She did a refill, chose raspberry lemon tea, found that it tasted mostly of stale, artificial lemon and nothing like raspberries, drank it anyhow, and Remus still did not make a sound.

"Remus," she sighed, "Is there not enough doubt at least for you to try to figure out the truth? Before they find him and give him the Kiss?"

Remus shuddered visibly at the mention of the Kiss.

"You haven't even told anybody about the dog part, have you?"

"I," he faltered, "I couldn't admit to betraying Albus's trust back in school…"

"We both know you are a better man than that," Larka pushed, "If it meant the survival of Harry, you would have given up how they all became Animagi in your first breath."

She was worn out, that was the last bit of fight she had in her.

And that was when Remus surprised her with: "You might be onto something there, Larka."

Startled, Larka unwisely asked, "I am?" Then regaining her confidence, she attempted that again, and made the question a statement this time by saying, "I am."

"I'm not fully convinced yet, but…if we could find him…there would be minimal danger if both of us were to be fully armed and alert."

Larka was ready to throw her arms around him and laugh and cry hysterically at the same time, but she settled for smiling at him widely.

That was how they got over their impasse.

* * *

* The owner of Honeyduke's did not welcome Larka in his shop, not after the incident of Winter Solstice 1977. Despite her best efforts, the old man and his wife banned her along with the Marauders. Larka had first tried pacifying them, and when that failed, explained how she had absolutely nothing to do with the singing choir of sweets, bawling out obscene Christmas carols. In fact she had not known the said carols even existed. Needless to say, the owners did not give her credit, and Sirius trying to twirl her in a mad dance to the tunes did not help her case.

** The statue of the one-eyed witch also held pleasantly unpleasant memories. Sirius insisted on throwing a leprechaun party after Larka complained to him about the essay on St. Patrick's Day. Despite her protests, he made, with questionable company, a particularly experimental dose of DYI green punch that he smugly called Emerald Isle. Nobody could remember anything the next day, and it wasn't even from the alcohol because Larka only had a sip. She woke up on top of Sirius on top of Gunhilda's humped back. Her back hurt for a week after that.

* * *

A/N: If Remus became convinced to go find Sirius a bit too quickly and easily, I'm sorry. I really think that he was ready to believe though, because even in the book he immediately thought Sirius to be innocent just from knowing that Peter was alive. He also never told Dumbledore that Sirius is an Animagus, and the reason that he gave (fear of disappointment) was so flimsy. Remus would have sacrificed that if he honestly believed Sirius a threat, beyond a doubt. And doubt is always how it begins, right?

You didn't think that I'd let Sirius get away so easily, did you?


	27. Of Arms and the Man I Sing

**Chapter 26**

**Of Arms and the Man I Sing***

They found him, in a collaboration that should have been recorded and sung by bards for centuries.

They had cleverly deduced that he was probably still somewhere near the castle, giving up being something that Sirius never got well acquainted with. There were, however, too many deep tunnels and secret passages to simply wait for him to show up with a (undoubtedly dramatic) entrance. So Remus went around casting a simple alerting spell on all the known entrances, and while they both anticipated Sirius to be savvy enough to navigate and nullify them, it was still worth a shot. It made them feel like they were doing something, as they went around frantic and giddy and getting their hopes up.

They then sought out Harry, the only person that both of them felt like they could reach out to in a mass of teenage bodies.

The boy was surprised to see the Professor and his woman turn up at the Gryffindor common room. Although he had known that the Professor had been a Gryffindor once upon a time, it was strange to know that he was young once too, and boggling to the thirteen year old mind to see such age and maturity confirm its past youth and immaturity.

"Professor Lupin?" he asked tentatively, "Are you looking for me?"

"Yes Harry, we thought that," Remus's eyes flicked to Larka very quickly, and then in a tone that suggested that he was speaking for the both of them, "You might help us with something."

"Certainly," Harry nodded obligingly.

"What is it that you need?" the bushy-haired girl next to him on the couch looked at them eagerly.

My, Larka thought, this girl was all too zealous to gain favor of the Professor.

"We were wondering if you could ask around to see if anybody had seen a large black dog recently," Remus said, doing a far better job at sounding calm and informal than Larka could have. "It's just that er…"

"Larka," she said, "Please call me Larka. My dog has been lost; he's going senile," and hopefully Sirius would never get word of this.

"Why don't you make a public announcement at dinner tomorrow?" The bushy-haired girl inquired.

"We would like to find him as soon as possible, and the students might feel more comfortable speaking to another student," Remus lied smoothly. They were really just postponing the moment when Dumbledore would inevitably know what they were up to.

"I'll ask," Harry nodded solemnly, standing up and far more grown-up than James at thirteen. Lily would have approved of this display of levelheaded maturity, Larka thought. Old thoughts about old people were returning to her like a wave washing up from the past, now that she let her mind go to these places.

"He's about this tall," Remus gestured to his waist, "With shaggy black fur and very perky ears."

Harry nodded again and the red-headed boy joined him, climbing to his feet with the gangly awkwardness of adolescence. "I'll help you, mate," he said.

Larka was surprised that the busy-haired girl wasn't also enlisting herself, but once the boys were off, she came closer to Larka and whispered, "I think it's brilliant, absolutely _brilliant_." There was a feverish glint in her eyes. "It's so terrible _brave_ too! Don't let _anybody_ stop you!"

Larka wasn't sure what she was saying, but smiled appreciatively at her encouraging words anyway.

"I'm Hermione, by the way," she reached out a hand, "Hermione Granger."

"Nice to meet you." As she shook the hand, Larka searched her head for any recognition of her surname, and came up blank. Of course, she hadn't expected her to be from one of the Families—it wasn't that Hermione had bad manners or seemed vulgar in any way, but the Families raised their children to be politely aloof**.

"When did you two lovebirds get the dog? Oh does it help with the—" her whisper turned lower, "The time of the month? I've read that animals do; man's best friend! It's not a proper family without one, mum always says."

The girl had the wrong sort of idea—and the right sort: the former about them being lovebirds***, and the latter about Remus's monthly condition. Larka glanced at Remus worriedly: she was concerned that his secret wasn't as secret as it should have been, but then again she was always the anxious one, so perhaps Remus was perfectly fine here?

In any case," Hermione said with finality, "I'll be off to help them as well. They never do anything without my help," she said proudly and fondly.

It was so good to see the generations carry on—every year, bright-eyed and fresh-faced youths filled this room, saturating the walls with their energy and legacies, even when the older ones failed in the world outside. Her own Hogwarts years seemed so tangibly close when she stood here.

It didn't take long for the three to run back, Hermione a few paces behind the two boys, all of their cheeks flushed but with barely any information.

"Sorry," Harry apologized without cause, "But nobody's seen a dog like that."

"Ah," Remus sighed, "It was a long shot anyway. Thank you very much, Harry, it means a great deal to us."

"I do hope you find it though," Hermione said fiercely, "Or perhaps it will find its way back to you."

"We would prefer to not take chances," Remus said softly. Then he asked, "Is there something on your mind, Harry?"

Larka noticed that Harry was looking hesitant, much like the way people were at funerals when approaching the widow.

"I did," he admitted, "See a large, bear-like dog, kind of like," he paused slightly, "The Grim, some time ago. But it wasn't around these parts."

"Where, where did you see him?" Larka tried to not look too alert and hopeful, but then remembered that losing her pet would give her allowance to be emotional, and so freed her constraints.

Her eyes might have frightened Harry though, because he looked even more taken back as he said, "It was when I walked out of the Dursley's, in Surrey. I was out late by myself."

They exchanged a meaningful glance. Larka's said '_See, proof of no ill-intent towards the boy. He could have finished him there and then._' Remus's said, '_I concede to your superior analyses_. Or at least that's what Larka read from it.

Harry continued while they were glancing, "I had thought—I thought…"

"I was in Surrey around that time," Larka said helpfully, laying a consoling hand on his shoulder. The poor boy thought that he saw the Grim, and although it was a silly superstition, it wasn't very silly to be a little upset by it when one was young.**** "You probably saw my dog—he has a habit of wandering."

The red-head Weasley (for what else could he be with that shock of red hair) interrupted this small moment, not seeming to pick up on his friend's distress, (such a Weasley, Larka thought, not inheriting any of the Prewett social acumen) "Dean said he saw one in Hogsmeade last week though, remember? He said it in Divination."

Hermione snorted, either at Dean or Divination.

"Oh shut it, Hermione," Wealsey snappishly told the girl, "If you're just going to be condescending."

"I am _not_ condescending!"

"Then what do you call your refusal to apologize for Scabbers?"

"_First_ of all, Crookshanks did _not_ eat your rat, and secondly, the phrase you're looking for is unapologetic truthfulness."

"Your cat _so_ did eat Scabbers!"

"He's been in your family for _twelve years_, maybe he just crawled somewhere and _died_!"

Remus beside her gave a small, stifled sound of horror.

"Ron, Hermione," Harry tried to mediate the same fight once again, "_Not here_." He mouthed an embarrassed 'sorry' to Larka and Remus.

Larka shook her head and mouthed back 'it's alright' before getting up to leave the two to bicker it out.

Remus seemed a bit lost in thought, the lines between his brows deepening again, so Larka tugged on his robe very lightly. "Hogsmeade," she reminded him, and he snapped out of it.

That was a place to start looking at least, Larka thought, grateful for Sirius sticking to civilization and not the vast, boundless wilderness.

The both of them thanked the teenage group, their thanks lost among the heated words, and barely made ten steps past the Fat Lady when McGonagall approached them with a frown.

"Minerva," Remus nodded to her.

"Remus. Ms. Roxburgh." McGonagall was not in a good mood apparently*****, and Larka wanted to cast a shrinking spell on herself and perhaps slither away into the cracks of the walls. "If you would follow me; the Headmaster would like to speak with you."

Ah, of course, Dumbledore already got word of their deeds.

The Headmaster was not too pleased either, when they entered his office, and greeted them without his customary enigmatic smile and the trademark wink. (At least Fawkes the phoenix was as regal as ever, and ignored their presence with great majestic pride.)

Remus shrunk and felt very small in his presence, and it was Larka who swelled and stepped up, voice firmer than her hand, "Headmaster, would you like us to explain ourselves?"

It had felt too much like that night, when things went wrong and betrayal happened. In hindsight, it was a great, dry cosmic foreshadow, and Larka did not appreciate the cosmos's humor.

"Albus, please," the Headmaster insisted with politeness, "And I only ask of you to think about your actions." He was not pressuring them, but his look plainly spoke of mild disappointment when he directed his eyes at Remus. _I had hired you to do the exact opposite_, his spectacles said.

"Albus," Remus replied to his glasses, "We have thought about our actions, and we are not known as foolhardy people." Not them, they were the levelheaded _thinkers_.

"Foolhardiness is a certain latent trait of Gryffindor," Dumbledore pointed out sagely.

There was no use disputing that, Larka thought as she recalled all the times that she flew too close to the Forbidden Forest—and all it took was a broomstick and a boyfriend, apparently.

"He's innocent," was all Larka could think to say.

Remus put it to more eloquent words, words that Larka had pitched him not two hours ago, but now could not find on her tongue as she faced the _Headmaster_. (That one night after the Willow Incidence was the first and only interaction she had with the man, who was intimidating by being not intimidating at all, so please excuse her renewed timidity.)

"We need to try, at least, to find out the truth," Remus ended his small speech.

"Hm," Dumbledore gave, and Larka could not tell if he was convinced.

After a significantly long pause, during which Larka told herself to not lock her knees straight to avoid passing out, Dumbledore finally addressed them again. "It is good to have faith, my dear," wise as always, "Faith is sorely needed now more than ever." Oh good, Larka had always been generous with faith. "But are you willing to put up your life for this blind faith?"

"It wouldn't be called faith otherwise," she felt solemn, and the comment slipped out before she remembered her shyness.

"Indeed. Wise words for one seeking out a mass murderer in the cloak of the night."

Larka again had to concede. Albus Dumbledore certainly knew how to talk and leave no room for retorts.

Silence stretched out, and Fawkes shuffled his feathers in the meantime.

"Swiftly and secretly," Dumbledore surprised Larka.

Remus, however, had a knowing and rather smug smile—or was it just a happy smile? Larka couldn't tell anymore, after so many long years and longer days.

"I'm sorry?" Oh she was definitely on top of her game in front of the man. She wouldn't be surprised if he sacked her on the spot.

"I trust that you two will make the best decisions for yourselves. As for whether that is for the good of the world—or Harry—well that is a weight for you to bear."

Larka was more thankful than she knew how to express. So instead, she assured him, "I will, and I will return with him, _innocent_."

Remus, bless his kind heart, did not chew her out for leaving him out in her declaration.

And so the search continued. They went back to Hogsmeade, the wintry road no less ominous with Remus by her side. There was such an expanse of land here, how had she never noticed? Hills that rose into mountains in the background, trees that hid everything in its murky depths, and the Shrieking Shack looking as far away as the castle almost at this angle.

"Oh bugger," Larka let out a frozen breath.

They split up, agreeing on a firefly messaging charm if either one happened upon anything, for the sake of covering more ground. Neither felt comfortable leaving the other, as if their mission grew stronger in their number, like chopsticks bound together being stronger. Still, it was a logical choice, so they went ahead.

Larka really thought Sirius would be found at the Shrieking Shack, but given Remus's familiarity with that particular area, and the muddy state of the trek, she let him have it and climbed the hill through the residences.

Lots of lights still on, with flickering flames drawing shadows on the glass window panels. Sometimes she could see a Christmas tree and catch a faint waft of resin, but most times the smell was dominated by that of roasted meat.

Oh _meat_, she thought, and ran towards the village dump site. Nobody would be taking out the leftovers of a holiday duck to the trash site tonight, but the prevailing smell of meat would surely drive an escaped convict _mad_. Especially one who was more of a carnivore than an omnivore.

It was harder to see out here, at the back end of the village, so close to the cavernous mountains and far from the streetlights and houselights. But even against the thick darkness, she could see a darker form moving again the bags and bags of rotting and rotten trash.

The dog—for it was a dark dog with shaggy fur and_ oh she found him she found him she found him_—got the sound of her running and was about to flee when she yelled, "Moddey!"

Her yell resonated through the quiet air, and she dreaded anybody coming out to see the commotion, but thankfully the holiday prevented the usual neighborhood nosiness. The dog, however, stilled in its tracks, although its hind legs were still tense and ready to bound away at a moment's notice.

"Moddey," she cried out, tears now running out of her eyes from the bottom of her heard, "Moddey oh Moddey, oh I have _finally_ found you."

The dog turned its head around, and tilted its head, half in question and half in confusion.

She staggered towards him, careful to not make sudden movements. Sirius as Moddey was more flighty and more easily misinterpreted human actions, and this was a bad time to have him misinterpret anything. Her hand went out slowly, and despite the matted dirtiness of his fur, her fingers started to pat his back.

"Moddey, I _trust you_," she whispered the most important words of the night, and saw a boundless fire light up in the dog's bloodshot eyes.

His left paw lifted up—and oh dear _Merlin_ it had such a gash on it—and swished about. It took Larka a second to understand that it was a beckoning motion, and she followed him, although she never quite straightened fully, so that she might keep a hand on his fur and remind herself that this was real.

It took Larka more than a second to remember Remus, and to remember sending him a signal, but that was later.

* * *

* There can be no doubt as to the greatness of the wizard Virgil, and his milestone in the recording of magical history. However, Larka had never thought much of him, given that he started his famous _Aeneid_ with a glorification of war. War, she properly understood, was never glorious except on the pages of a book.

** The Families also did not shake hands. Bodily contact was not something they approved of, settling more for curtsies and curt nods. This arose out of the medieval ladies' fear of mixing up the powdered perfume they covered themselves with, and also the stiffness of the gentleman's collars that allowed no more movement than a barely perceivable nod. And what were the Families if not tradition from the medieval ages?

*** A common misconception, even in their Hogwarts days. It was not that Larka and Remus were exceptionally close or behaved in any way to suggest such intimacy, but people often thought of them as a couple anyhow. It was just that Remus-and-Larka was a far more logical conclusion than _Sirius_-and-Larka. This was set as the chief argument for Sirius-infatuated girls in denial, and now Hermione (although she was not infatuated). Hermione Jean Granger prided herself on her logical deductions, and was ninety-four percent sure of this new woman being The Woman in Professor Lupin's life. This woman was undoubtedly Sorted into Gryffindor, Hermione thought, for her bravery in the name of love and her defiance of social norms. Very good traits, she pondered, as she slipped Ronald Bilius Weasley another look that made her logical brain get slightly less logical. It must be his hair, and teenage hormones, Hermione took a jab at returning to her usual, logical ways.

**** A great deal of not-young wizards and witches were upset when they thought they saw the Grim. There was an unforeseen spike in sightings of the Grim, however, that year. The Ministry blamed it on the heat waves.

***** Minerva McGonagall did not approve of when things diverged from their written paths. It made her twitchy and gave her such a state. Remus John Lupin and Larka Janet Roxburgh were _not_ written to be conducting their own vigilante episodes.

* * *

A/N: Oh dear, I got carried away with the footnotes didn't I? But they're so fun to write, and they do keep it from being too depressing, I hope.

And they actually _do_ meet next chapter, I _promise!_


	28. Crime and Punishment

**Chapter 27**

**Crime and Punishment**

Sirius looked so, well, so _different_.

He had more filth than flesh on him. His hair was longer than even in his most morose moods before. His skin was sickly pale and matte, a wrong texture for skin. His cheekbones would have cut her hand had she touched it, and not in a Roman sculpture sort of way. His eyes gleamed eerily red from the dense capillaries. His face was all lines with no roundness and held too much grayness for a wizard of thirty-four. For all the quickness in the way his eyes darted, he looked like a man who didn't know where he was or where he was going.

He looked bloody awful.

Larka didn't know how she could have not thought about Sirius aging, but in her mind she always saw him at twenty-two, eyes gleaming and teeth flashing. That picture on the Daily Prophet that Remus sent her did nothing to mar this image. How could she not expect twelve years of Azkaban to not change a person? But the man before her was achingly different; she could barely convince herself that this was really Sirius, Sirius bleeding Black, heartthrob of the ages and King of the capital 'W' World.

They were in a cave that Moddey led her to, and Larka waited silently for Remus to come over. In the meantime, she watched as Moddey transformed back into a man. This _was_ Sirius, she reminded herself.

When Remus rushed over, he found Larka with her wand tucked back in (unwisely, but she was unharmed, so his heart soared a little and his faith in Sirius grew by more than a little), and Sirius in tatters, eyes silently pleading and shaky breaths escaping him.

"Remus, Larka," the new-old Sirius croaked out, and looked as if he couldn't believe himself, and also torn between who to throw his collapsing body onto first.

All three of them were shaking madly. (If anybody had been in a humorous mind, they might have said vibrating, but it was a serious moment.) Remus, always the most composed, stilled his trembling voice as he said, "Welcome back, Padfoot old friend."

Larka could not bear it anymore: she flung herself at Sirius, as desperate to crumple to the ground as he was, and trapped him in her arms so that he would never ever leave.

She thought she was going to die, from both being able to touch him and being able to feel every single one of his ribs against her.

"I'll uh," Remus said lightly at the sight of these two fiercely hugging on the floor, "Go and stand guard outside," he mumbled as he walked out, "Inform Albus. Logistics. _Scourgify_; Merlin knows when was the last time you bathed. Take your time."

They didn't waiver a single moment's embrace at Remus leaving, and Sirius was once again moved by just how well his old friend knew and understood him. But there was Larka, warm and supple and completely forgotten for twelve years due to the happiness that memories of her brought. Oh vestiges of her timid eyes or her furious words at him remained, but they were not the real tormentors of his prison years.

"Sirius," she sobbed.

And then all of a sudden he was kissing her.

His lips were freezing when they crashed into hers, but his mouth was burning and his teeth were all the wrong shapes. His tongue had fuzzy edges that drove into her heart but she couldn't stop, it didn't matter that everything tasted gritty and not how mouths should taste, but _oh_ _yes_ the world was spinning in its beautiful dance again, and a surge of repressed feelings rose within her, having lain dormant in the depth of her chest these twelve long years. Oh _Merlin Ambrosius_, twelve years have gone by and she couldn't take it back.

"Stop," she gasped out before she was taken back in to another kiss, just as long as even more desperate. "_Stop_," she tried again half a century later, "Sirius, I'm _married_."

And that curse broke the happy illusion of a fairy tale reunion.

"_What_," Sirius barked out breathlessly, his face looking distorted with his lips bleeding and his face paler than the crisp white parchment. It wasn't an accusatory 'What', more confusion and needing confirmation than anything, but Larka still felt so incredibly guilty all of a sudden.

"I'm married," Larka said quietly.

Sirius felt betrayed. He knew he shouldn't, and that it was a perfectly reasonable course of action for women, and in fact who was he kidding he should have expected it, he was in _Azkaban_, not some silly gaol or rehabilitation center. The reasoning didn't help.

"How could you!" Now he was being accusatory.

"It was—I was trying…you were…I—he," Larka had her moment of silver tongued eloquence, and she used it all to convince Remus. She helplessly wondered if prison had made Sirius more unforgiving than he was before, and how much calmer and grateful he would get if she told him that she was the installation of faith in his innocence. She still believed in him after all this time, and hadn't that been what he asked of her?

"I should've known," and Sirius was off to being moody.

Larka remembered how she dealt with his morose moods, and put a light hand on his arm, "Sirius," she hummed gently, "I was just trying to cope as best I could—we all were."

"By running straight into another bastard's arm!"

(Had Larka been less distraught, she might have found it funny that Sirius branded himself a bastard with that sentence.)

"Well I couldn't run into yours Sirius! You were _gone_!"

He waved wildly, "I would have come back! I _have_ come back!"

"But I didn't know that! Besides," oh great she was getting teary now, "Everybody said you were a murderer, and so what if you escaped?"

"What's the bull about so what if I escape?"

"I still had no idea how you'd be, how you'd feel coming out, even if I was firm in my belief of your innocence."

"I said I'd love you forever!"

He had indeed promised such, but who in love didn't? "We were just _twenty two_ then, Sirius—forever at that age doesn't last very long…"

"You know I've always meant everything I said to you," his eyes were dangerously narrowed, and for the first time in her life, Larka was slightly frightened by Sirius.

"I know, but what was I supposed to do? Waste away for a murderer?"

"Even you didn't believe in me?!" He yelled, sounding very much like the portrait of his mother.

"I—I _never_," she let out indignantly, how dare he question the only thing that held her together during the years, how dare he doubt her faith. "You should know that from my letter."

"It didn't say much beyond that you were confused," he mumbled, mood swinging drastically from anger back to morose again.

"What are you talking about? It took a _whole roll of parchment_; it was longer than all the essays I had written at Hogwarts combined! I never stopped writing over the years! That was the only time I could find somebody to bring it in!"

Sirius frowned, "I only got a foot of it—it was torn at the bottom."

Larka gaped for a good minute before blowing that, "Oh I'm going to _crucify_ that sodding prat until he's just a heap of blubbering flesh, that—that sodding bloody sod," she didn't know what to call him anymore.

Sirius was momentarily speechless at the display of foul language: Larka had never been one to color her words so, uh, forcefully.

"Sorry," Larka recovered her senses and apologized self-consciously, "Lost my marbles there. It's just—he _swore_ that he brought it to you. Cor, should have _known_ better to trust Lloyd Curtiss."

"Lloyd _Curtiss_? Our Healer? No, I got passed the piece by one of the damned Dementors*."

Larka fell silent.

"I guess they thought the rest was too happy for me to have," Sirius said bitterly. "How did you get Lloyd of all people to do your biddings? He was such a prat back in school**."

"That's only because you made him your archenemy in popularity," Larka said dryly, "And he said he'd do it if I went to dinner with him."

"You _dated _him? Larka! What's _wrong_ with you?!"

"What's wrong with _me_?!" She cried out crossly, the blood rushing to her face as she remembered the humiliating begging she did on his account, "Might I remind you that _you_ were in prison and _I_ was trying to pass a letter _to a convicted murderer_."

"But I'm _innocent_!"

"I didn't _know_!"

"You didn't _believe_ in me!"

"I said I did in the blasted letter!"

It was Sirius's turn to fall silent now.

"I did," Larka whispered out, her body shaking with sobs that she barely contained, "I did I did I did…"

He came and enfolded the whole of her.

"I did but there was nothing I could do…"

"So you went ahead and married some bloke." The bitterness was back, although she was still in his embrace.

"Sirius," all of a sudden she was very, very tired, "Life made me marry. I couldn't explain waiting for your twice lifetime sentence to end to my parents, could I?"

"Who is he?"

"What?"

"Who is the bloke?"

"Does it matter?" Larka asked sulkily, "Just some Muggle."

"Muggle," Sirius seemed to have some problem with this concept, "Then don't even pretend it was for your parents then; you went and married a _Muggle_."

She struggled out of his arms—it was such an odd position for an argument anyway, "You of all people shouldn't start spewing Muggle-hate."

"That's not my _point_," he grunted in frustration, eyes ablaze, "If you wanted to keep your parents happy, you would have married into Greengrass or, I dunno, _Flint_ or some nice, noble family of the Sacred Twenty Eight."

"They wouldn't necessarily _want_ me Sirius, don't you forget that. My parents just want me settled down and over you. So I found a man for myself, what could be more natural?"

"Nothing," he spat out like it was a venomous defeat.

"He's rather like Remus, you know. You might like him."

"_Highly_ doubt it. Why didn't you just marry Moony and get over it," he groused.

"I couldn't—I had to," run away from it all, the magic the pain—but this was not the time to say it yet, she couldn't bare her soul to this Sirius yet. So she tried explaining again, "Bit not good moving from serial killer to _werewolf_."

"If anybody had to take you, I'd prefer—"

"Nobody _took_ me, Sirius, I'm my _own person_, and it's not about what _you_ prefer."

"Still—"

"Look, I married Castor, and that can't be helped now." Then, finding her tone too harsh and her words biting, she added, "I didn't mean it to be a betrayal, you know…"

Sirius refused to talk, and instead looked even more gaunt and tired if that was at all possible. It took all of Larka's willpower to not crumble and take him in her arms forever, and let the world rot in hell.

In the meantime, to help her calm down, she thought of peaches: peaches had a nice, soft fuzz around them, barely able to be felt when touched. She was like a layer of fuzz on a peach, peaceful and fuzzy, and neither angry nor promiscuous. She would stay on her peach of life like a good layer of fuzz.

"Castor," he said finally.

"Castor," she repeated, "Yes, his name is Castor." She wasn't very keen on talking about her husband. In fact, she had not been very keen to think about him as of tonight.

"_Castor_," he continued, incredulous now, "That's my great-great-great-grandfather. Funny, it's like in your escape you only crept closer to me in another way."

It was clear that Sirius found it more bitter than funny, and Larka did not see the point of telling him that was exactly her goal.

"I think," Sirius said hesitatingly, "That I should fetch Remus."

And he left, turning around with hunched shoulders, and disappeared out the mouth of the cave, not even caring to transform, only to be replaced by Remus after only a moment.

"Stooped to eavesdropping, huh, Professor Lupin," Larka tried unsuccessfully to lighten the mood. She didn't even have the energy to be vexed at his knowing and slightly pitying look.

"Larka. You were too harsh."

"Life," she gave feebly, "It would be harsher on him if I let him on, wouldn't it?"

"I wasn't just talking about him."

"Oh don't pretend like you understand," she horrified herself with her crassness—Remus had some trouble some time ago with his girlfriend, although she couldn't remember the details. He was now frightfully alone.

"Who are you punishing?" He ignored her attempt altogether and asked in an uncharacteristically reproachful tone, "And for whose crime?"

Larka didn't like being put on the cross-examination pedestal at all. She also didn't appreciate how he sounded like he was blaming her, _her_ of all people. "What are you trying to say?"

"That perhaps Sirius had protected you a bit too well in the First War. And then you ran away so that you would have no more need of him."

Larka was exasperated that Remus would think that. "No _need_ of him? I haven't stopped the _need_ for him since bloody sodding _Sixth Year of Hogwarts_. I stopped talking to you lot _because_ I couldn't stop it."

"That wasn't for him. That was for you."

"Well at least I wrote him letters," she hissed out, "You didn't even believe in him an hour ago. Where was your trust in your best _friend_?"

There. She said it: the silent accusation that Sirius did not say so she said it for him, the one that forgiveness was already given but Remus couldn't atone for anyway. The man looked very sad and Larka was very sorry that she said that. But she couldn't take back the words that still resonated between stony walls, and so they let them ring for a bit.

Life had made everybody more bitter and unforgiving, it seemed. The happy reunion moment could not last very long—how could it, in the face of such anger and resentment?

"Well then," she said after too long, "Let's get him cleaned up. Moddey," she called to outside, "Do come in, we've to, well, we've to decide on something, don't we."

Sirius came back in but remained petulantly a dog.

"We're thirty-somethings, Sirius," she said tiredly, "And have some vague mission of liberating your name, I presume."

"Pettigrew, Wormtail—_Peter_," the first thing he said when back as a human was vehement and didn't make sense.

"Where is he," Remus asked, oddly cool and knowing.

"Weasley boy's rat—he gave them out—we switched—sorry Remus, didn't tell you—I, I don't know what—Scabbers, he calls him—the cat, the cat's got him."

Obviously she was missing something, so she let them work it out: they sounded too urgent so it was more important than her being well-informed. It only took them half a minute more to decide that Albus Dumbledore was their best bet, as always, especially given him turning a blind eye to their search in the first place.

Smuggling him into the castle was far easier than it should have been. Nobody questioned a Professor, not even after the incident with Professor Quirrell two years ago. The unconventional alliance of a canine and a feline (Hermione's cat was part Kneazle***, who would have known?) made a quick job of securing the rat inside a jar. (Remus charmed it to refresh its supply of oxygen. Larka let him do it, and gave no reason for her reluctance to display her charmwork. She might have been the best at charms once before, but she hardly wanted to risk suffocating the only living evidence of Sirius's innocence.)

Exhilaration buzzed through Larka's veins, and she was hardly breathing at the thought of a free Sirius Black. What that meant or led to was not terribly important in her heady giddiness, and nothing, _nothing_ in the world could go wrong.

Until they met with the Headmaster.

Of course he believed them, believed with a quickness that made Larka suspect that he had believed it the moment they stepped inside his office earlier. No, the trouble was that Albus said, in his convincing, sagacious way, that it was best if they kept this to themselves. It made sense of course, that with Pettigrew missing and Sirius in hiding, they were one up on Voldemort. Larka just didn't agree that it was all that _important_ enough to warrant such precautions. After all, what one Sirius Black to the Dark Lord? But who was she to argue with probably the most powerful and definitely the wisest wizard in the World?

Sirius had tried, rattling on about how _he_ didn't commit those murders, so why should he bear the punishments for them—but Larka was the smarter one here, for that argument achieved nothing beyond making their legs sorer by standing through it. In the end he sullenly let Albus take Pettigrew away, who was still futilely scratching at the glass walls of the magicked jar.

"Lie low somewhere," the Headmaster told Sirius Black, whose eyes were growing wild and desperate again. "Don't show yourself, and build your old strength back. Merlin knows," in the most vulnerable moment that Larka had seen the old wizard so far, "That we will need it soon."

They were ushered out by McGonagall, who had many more lines now than just a year ago, her large eyes like orbs of glass that did not want to see.

Once they were out in the hallway—Sirius back to a dog once more—Larka took a courageous breath and said, "He can—he can stay at my place, since no wizard or witch would be caught dead in that part of Brighton."

Remus dipped his head in consent, "That would be best. The castle isn't safe for you, Padfoot." It was clear from his tone that 'the castle' was a vague allegory for himself.

Moddey—or Padfoot, did names matter anymore?—whined and pawed the hem of Remus's robe with his best puppy eyes, which was more unnerving than pitiable due to the scrawniness of his doggy cheeks.

"Be reasonable," Remus muttered out, clearly not liking the situation too much himself, but scratched behind his ear pacifyingly. "Wouldn't you rather that than stay on all fours always?"

A dog was much easier pacified than a man, although the merits of being human and therefore having opposable thumbs were lost on Sirius the dog.

* * *

* Lloyd Curtiss had, in fact, passed the scroll to the Dementor guard with every intention of fulfilling his end of the bargain. In fact, that particular Dementor on duty that day was known to have human sympathies, lingering a whole two seconds less when he Kissed than the others, and was socially ostracized by the other guards for his befuddled mind. To prove to the others that he was sharp as a diamond, he ate the rest of the scroll. Then in a pang of guilt he threw the first bit at Prisoner number 47. Lloyd felt like saying Black ate it was more believable than saying a Dementor ate it.

** Sirius Black and Lloyd Curtiss always had an archenemy thing going on. (No, Severus 'Snivellus' Snape was not to the level of Sirius Black to be an _arch_enemy.) Lloyd ruled the Hogwarts castle before Sirius came to inherit the throne, but Lloyd returned to visit and attend balls with alarming frequency and ease, and Sirius did not appreciate the old King undermining his rule.

*** Kneazles were known for their impressive and majestic appearances. The first recorded sighting of a Kneazle was the one that protected the heiress Una Black (an ancient ancestor of Sirius's, or at least the Blacks claimed her as one) while the Redcrosse Knight was fooled into abandoning her for a false Una. The Kneazle, taken for a lion, was far smarter than a man, of course, raised in Faerieland he might have been.

* * *

Author's Note: So uh, next up, the husband meets Sirius.

Not exactly a happy reunion, huh, but at least he's BACK.


	29. Belly of the Whale

**Chapter 28**

**Belly of the Whale**

"Altair Arpad*, distant relative of my mum's, just call him Pad though," was how Larka introduced Sirius to Castor, her husband.

It all unfolded very conveniently.

Castor was already expecting her dad to drive her back, so it was easy to Apparate them to an empty gas station on the borders of Clayton, turn Remus's old pet dog who needed veterinarian attention back into Sirius again, and get a cabbie. She had long passed the age where Apparition caused her anxiety, but she still habitually patted her stomach and legs and arms, out of a momentary worry of split limbs. When Sirius turned back to his towering height again, he gave Larka a funny look, and for a moment looked less gaunt. (She supposed that she could live with the mortification if it meant Sirius thought it funny.)

They switched cars a couple of times in case anybody had been trailing them though, as unlikely as that was. Larka thought it largely unnecessary, but some survival habits were engraved in Sirius by now that it was far simpler to give him whatever he wanted. Like anybody was going to recognize a twelve-year old murder case participate who flashed on the telly for about a minute before the weather warnings kicked in. (Hurricane Black, it was called. Somebody out there had humor, Larka was sure.) Especially not likely at all these _golf clubs_ for aged Muggles that they drove through. The north of Brighton had nothing but golf clubs for kilometers.

Sirius was actually very curious about cars as transport. It made him remember his flying motorbike again, which was something Larka wished he would forget. Beyond the paranoia, it had been a straightforward road trip—although it again took her three hours to get through an hour and half's worth of land.

When Larka showed up at the door with this man with dark waves and blindingly gray eyes, Castor let them both in with a cordial smile.

As much as Sirius did not want to admit it, the man did have a faint aura of Remus. Rounder across the belly, with black hair that was too dark to be natural, and a waxy feel about him due to the lack of magic, but definitely reminiscent of Remus alright. Sirius did not like him one bit.

Castor liked the stranger though, being the odd sort of fellow who liked most everybody and everything and was therefore disliked for it. A husband should be concerned when his wife shows up with a strange man and invites the said man to their house, but Castor was not at all threatened by the skeletal man with browned teeth who looked more like a war refugee than a dark, dangerous Italian. Had the hair for an Italian though; he couldn't remember if Larka had mentioned where he was from, so maybe her mother was originally from Italy**?

Castor wasn't bothered by the fact that he knew barely anything about Larka's family or her past. Again, he was an affable chap—proud of it too—who wasn't bothered by much at all.

So his house was turned into a camp for this Italian refugee, without any complaint from him.

They set up the guest bedroom for him, the one that was meant for Castor's mum when she got too old since they never got guests, and it was right next to the master bedroom. The walls were thin plaster and Larka did not bother to cast a silencing charm that would have been replaced with an enhanced listening spell by Sirius anyway. She wasn't quite sure if Sirius was simply paranoid, or needed to follow her every movement. Neither option seemed healthy for his mental state.

The faint tickling of magic was constant around the house after Sirius moved in. Castor remarked on his jumpers being more static once, and Larka gave him a tightly stretched joke—Castor didn't get it but Sirius threw his head back and gave her a bark. That was his first laugh since getting here. Larka's eyes nearly watered in relief.

Being around people was good for Sirius. It forced him to pretend that he wasn't depressed or angry, and that made him less so. Larka Apparated home hurriedly after lessons each day that she taught, dreading the images that the back of her mind painted, of crisscrosses on Sirius's wrists that bled vertically and were not from war, of the local prison burning in manic fire and Sirius the arsonist, of an empty house and a Sirius who rushed headfirst into a Death Eater lair to fight the battle that he thought was his, of an empty house because Sirius just left for no reason.

It turned out every evening that Sirius had more sanity in him than that.

Larka admired the strength of his wrecked mind with tearless and wordless gratitude. So if Sirius tended to be difficult to talk to, shadowed her like a needy kid, jerked at every noise, demanded her attention at all times, always kept the telly on and the shower running to avoid silence, Larka did not reprimand him. She just paid the electric and water bills discretely.

This harmonious state of being continued for some time. More specifically, until the Twelfth Night.

Castor was raised Catholic, and although he was not Catholic in belief per se, he was socially religious and liked to practice it when the end of the year came about. As per tradition, the entire family was gathered at their house for a feast on the Eve of Epiphany. The entire family this year was Castor and Larka, Mabel and her kids and her boyfriend, Castor's widowed, senile mother, and the oddly fitted Sirius.

Sirius was comforted by the surge of Anglophilia around the Twelve Days of Christmas immensely. Tradition was something that both he and Larka were familiar with, and although the particular rituals and trinkets were different, the same sense of larger-than-oneself was present. He also liked watching Larka bustle about, a healthy flush in her cheeks and an easy smile thrown his way—she gave him that smile only she was too distraught by house chores to remember the artificial distance she laid between them.

Larka played the housewife this year, making a fat, brown roast goose but chicken for Castor's mum—who had digestive problems with strong meat—and various other dishes. Normally they just catered or bought pre-cooked turkey, but this year—Larka wanted to make it a home this year.

The house was decorated too, with softly glowing lights all around and a Christmas pine that was littered with plastic balls and empty gift boxes on the bottom.

The entire place smelled like a dozen herbs and slow-cooked meat by late afternoon, and by early evening the air was overtaken by the sweetness of molten sugar in desserts. The appetizer was a flavorless garden salad for the weight-conscious Mabel and a simple split pea soup for the rest (extra bacon in Sirius's). The green of it contrasted with the red cabbage side and the redcurrant sauce that went with the meats—it was a lovely visual effect. (Again, Sirius's plate had the fattest, best carving of the goose, golden juice squirting out when he stabbed at the tender thighs. Larka was determined to make him a man instead of a skeleton again.) The side dish was Brussels sprouts of course, and bleeding, steeped beets. The color scheme was rather heavy handed, as it turned out, but holidays were the time for such over-the-top, literal interpretation of festivity.

Everybody was impressed. Mabel especially, since she couldn't boil water without burning the pot.

The feasting ended at eight, and Castor's old mother retired after they kindled the New Year's yule log with the leftover charcoal ceremoniously. She was very satisfied by the continuation of the protective ward, and Larka thought that Castor and Mabel didn't give the old woman enough credit. Both of her children laugh at her archaic, whimsical antics, but in truth the yule log was always a piece of hard yew, and yew naturally contained traces of lightning-warding magic. Not that the house was in danger of lightning, especially not after all the precautious spells that Sirius laid on the house the first day here, but it was a good thought.

The children, Penelope and Pan, were allowed to stay up for dessert of cake and jam tarts, but no later than ten and certainly not when the adults drank enough spiked wassail punch and started playing cards.

Mabel's boyfriend insisted on bringing a French king cake instead of a normal fruitcake, complete with a broad bean and a pea inside, each representing the king and the queen who would rule everybody else for the night.

Guess who got crowned King.

The Queen, however, turned out to be Mabel, and she playfully looped her arm around Sirius's and threw her boyfriend a saucy look which turned him on greatly.

"I prefer him as a brother-in-law," Castor whispered to Larka as he followed her into the kitchen to bring out some more wassail punch, "to that Frenchman. My sister has been flirting endlessly though, so maybe she's developing better taste." It wasn't that he didn't like the Frenchman who wasn't French, but the Italian just looked so _right_ and bright and happy right then, and his radiance glowed onto Mabel and made her look exceptionally pretty as well. Despite their differences, Castor did wish the best for his sister.

Larka dumped extra ale into the wassail base and downed the leftover ale in one swift, bitter motion.

"Larka, this cake thing is _delicious_," Sirius whined out from the living room, voice muffled by a mouthful of the pastry undoubtedly. "Come back and tell me what's in it _this instant_!"

Mabel's boyfriend tried to help out but promptly swallowed his words at the aristocratic Shut-Up Look that Sirius gave him. Intimidation skills were not lost during a prison stay.

"It's a French thing," Larka said as she carried out the large bowl of freshly mulled wassail, "Some sort of flaky pastry layers and some sort of almond paste inside. I'm sure Guy would be able to tell you more." She passed around glasses and invited them all to have a drink, lest the conversation ceased.

Guy—the hitherto unnamed boyfriend—sneaked a fleeting glance at Sirius to make sure his speaking wouldn't result in his limbs being chopped off, and then explained, "It's a galette des Rois; and that's frangipane in the center."

Sirius was about to ask Larka what in the nine worlds was frangipane, when a loud racket came from the kitchen.

Larka was up in a heartbeat and ran over to find Penelope standing over a fallen plate of star-shaped jam tarts. The girl had been trying to reach the sweets on top of the counter, but her short stature and babyish clumsiness had resulted in this. Larka patiently waved her into the living room before closing the door and cleaning it up with a swift swish of her wand (hidden completely in the back of her dress).

"Penelope wanted the tarts," she announced as she tugged the door open once again, popping her head out to see Penelope sitting on Sirius's lap. Larka was beginning to like the girl less and less. "So I guess time for second dessert?"

"Hurrah," Penelope cheered and rose from Sirius's knees so that she could be first in line for the treats. The tarts were very beautiful, colored with thirteen different colors for good luck and resembled stained mosaics found in church windows.

Castor proudly bit into one and said, "Larka had recently discovered a passion for cooking, and she is so wonderful at it."

Sirius looked at the tarts and his eyes flicked to meet Larka's—his prankster years would be wasted if he couldn't tell when something was made with house-elf magic. "Oh Larka had always been good about picking up new hobbies," he said overly flippantly, as if he was trying to prove to Castor how well he knew Larka, "even back in the school days."

Castor looked mildly surprised, "Pad, you knew her from school?"

Sirius shrugged, "Relative, remember."

"Ah, right, of course," Castor agreed easily.

Larka sent the kids to bed, and by the time she returned, Mabel was sitting too close to Sirius on the couch and was staring at him intently.

"So say Pad," Mabel asked, "where _did_ you go to school? You're not from around these parts, that's for sure—I haven't seen anybody so posh even in those golf clubs up north."

"I'm from Kent," Sirius answered mischievously, and then looked at Larka expectantly, as if inviting her to share this inside joke with him.

Larka remembered visiting the old Potter house in Kent, where Sirius had stayed a summer and found a family. The memory of summer grass and thrilling kisses on the staircase made her intensely nostalgic. She didn't think this was good for her heart, so she took another jam tart and stuffed it down her throat. Or maybe if she ate enough almond paste filling she could morph into an almond.

"So what do you do?" Mabel pressed on, clearly intrigued, "You're here on holiday, right?"

Larka winced; the question was innocuous enough, but …

"I just moved back. Staying with Larka for a while."

"Back from where?" The French boyfriend was interested too now, at the thought of being abroad and generally anywhere not England.

"America." He still lied with the ease of a teenager.

"America!" Mabel exclaimed, "How wonderfully _vulgar_! Tell me, was everybody simply a _pig_?"

Larka doubted that Sirius knew much about America, and dreaded what he could do with 'pig', so she was about to interrupt when he gave her a look. Sirius _never_ gave her the pureblood Shut-Up Look—what by the name of Merlin was happening?

"I was in California—great big houses, but they believed in hiring people too much, had a hired man for everything, including laying the napkin on your neck," he said flawlessly, his voice smooth and hypnotic like in his youth again. "The sun was everywhere, not used to that, but all the girls went marbles over my accent. Not a bad bunch, as a whole. I stayed there and made a bit of money, so now I'm back to lounge and enjoy the English weather."

Larka understood—he was reinventing himself. His storytelling was a healing spell, and if enough people believed in it, maybe it would have enough power to make him believe it as well. (And there was just a hint of sarcasm at the end—not bitter sarcasm, but funny sarcasm, and bitter to funny was always, _always_ a good progression.)

She passed the ale-heavy punch to everybody, made them all drink more than they should have, and listened to the rest of Sirius's autobiography.

At some point, they all fell asleep, right there in the middle of the living room, to the sound of luminous words and occasional Christmas crackers.

The night's coldness woke Larka up and she foggily went to the bedroom to get a blanket. She dragged the quilt off from the bed (somehow the thought of sleeping _in_ the bed not occurring) and yawned as she approached the living room once again.

Somebody was leaning against the closed kitchen door with long, easy limbs. He was too far inside the room for the moonlight to hit him, so he stood cloaked in shadows, but Larka recognized him without much difficulty. It was Sirius, smoking a cigarette that he probably 'borrowed' from Guy.

The darkness took away everything, leaving behind only the liquid brilliance of his eyes and the burning redness hanging off his mouth. The darkness restored him, and he extended a hand out to her, as if bidding her to sneak out with him, just like they used to.

She often did sneak out of the girl's dormitory, and it was for the bizarre sort of feeling, like there was nothing but the two of them left, invincible in each other's company. The memory of those glorious nights stirred something within her, and a certain longing for a familiar happiness spread out curling with her blood and her skin could barely contain the expanse of her.

Somehow, Sirius motionless there on the opposite side, _waiting for her_, just her, was so significant and symbolic that Larka couldn't even tell when the tears started going down her numb cheeks.

_I love him so much_, she admitted, sixteen and in Kent again.

And whatever she was looking for, she wasn't going to find it here in this house.

**-.-.-.-**

Castor woke up more or less when Larka rose from the couch, the springs bouncing back and lifting the dream-veil that kept him under.

He didn't get up though, preferring to nestle over the residual warmth of his wife. They hadn't been intimate in quite some while, and the alcohol going to his head reminded him of that. He wasn't used to drinking, except for holidays, and the buzz was leading his thoughts now.

He heard her returning footsteps before he saw her in the doorway.

For no reason at all, she stopped there, a figure taller than she normally looked because of Castor's lowered position on the couch. She was looking at something in the distant, the moonlight catching just the tip of her blue dress, their blue quilt around her shoulders. She drifted in all that blueness, and there was a blue light in her eyes, a strange, unfamiliar light, nothing like he had ever seen in her.

If he was an artist, he might have painted her.

The moon was at her feet, but there was enough light to see her. She looked teeming with tenderness. The heating system was always bad, but they never got around to doing anything about it. Perhaps he should pay more attention to the house, Castor decided. Her fingers that clutched the quilt were also blue, from the lack of heat most likely.

A cloud outside moved ever so slightly and the moonlight that pooled at her feet now illuminated her cheeks, and he found that they were unnaturally flushed and shining.

It was a magical moment, he thought, the alcohol ruining his vigorous common sense and firm no-nonsense.

Castor was not a man who thought often of magic, or indeed much beyond mechanical engineering, and the closest one could get him to admit magic would be a grudging nod that somebody might have thought gears moving to be magical. The majority of Castor's thoughts were linear in sequence: in the morning he would think of what socks to put on, then how many sugars in his coffee was an acceptable indulgence, then if he forgot to lock the door, then his lessons, then if the train will be crowded, then what might be for dinner. His day ended with dinner, and vague thoughts about how if he hadn't married, he might have done more, gotten further.

So it was with some confusion that Castor found himself thinking that Larka seemed strangely symbolic, although of what he didn't know.

He felt like he read something like this in one of those poetry books that she made him read when they first started dating. Something about pillars in a forest speaking in a foreign language.

Blast the poem; she was so beautiful, and her beauty was so secret, something that only spread out now, for him only, like a formula only written for him. She was looking at nothing ahead, as if there was math in the far distance, and the soft blue quilt around her like a foil of electrical wires gently enfolding her. Her beauty was in her look of love: there was such a profound love on her face, in her eyes, along her mouth.

Castor was moved by how much she loved him.

And beauty was always frail.

Larka was so delicate that he wanted to rise and protect her, and maybe kiss her in a way that he hadn't kissed her in a while, and then run his hands along the surface of his frail doll. Domestic life had doused any passions he had once felt, but with a look of silent love like that, how could a man resist? He was chuffed that she was his.

He finally decided to get up and touch her tenderly, she took a step forward, and the moon lit up her eyes as well as her cheeks.

In a great, swooping moment, he realized that she wasn't looking at nothing. She was looking straight ahead, with her profound love, and there stood Pad Altair, long and lean, a shadow in their house.

**-.-.-.-**

There was something in the night air, Sirius could swear, that tore away his years of confinement like dried mud. He nicked a cigarette from the Frenchman and smoking the preferred Embassy of his youth lit within him an ease that he could strap on and pretend was freedom. As long as the sun had yet to rise, he didn't have to look further than the red tip glowing before his mouth.

But when Larka woke up and groggily went away, he could almost literally hear his heart burst frantically, and for a moment he was blind and back in Azkaban again, waking up into a nightmare, trapped and alone.

But then she came back. Of course she came back—Larka was the one thing in his life that he could always, _always_ count on. Except when she went and married that blubbery idiot of a man, Sirius gave the sleeping Caius a quick scowl. He liked to think that his scowl was just as intimidating and regal as it had been in Hogwarts.

But Larka always came back to him, didn't she? Never once had he questioned it, the thought of Larka _leaving_ as absurd as the thought of the Marauders disbanding at one point.

But James was gone, he remembered with a jolting hurt.

But Larka was standing in front of him, and he reached out to her, half of him wishing he could take her away like he used to, and the other half of him just desperate for her to be closer. Because even though she never left, _he_ did, didn't he?

But he realized that there was once again a home to think of, as his hand hovered and as she took a step towards him, the moonlight catching in the blue quilt around her like an embracing cloud, her eyes flames against the coldness of the night seeping into the house.

But it was not just a sense of home that he found—a memory came back; or rather, rediscovered, for Azkaban did not _rob_ his memories, nor erase them, but simply took the happiness out of them. No—it wasn't that either. Azkaban had forced him to cling onto the same memories until they were as tattered as him, and in his hands, they were worn and so familiar that he could hardly imagine that they were happy at all. In a way, they were events, facts, instead of feelings, but now, with the spark of one small illumination, the entire expanse of his mind was lit with the brilliant light. Like a lolling wave bringing him undertow, he was suffocated and born again with his memories. The vision of the present Larka overlapped with the Larka of fifteen years old, sitting by his bed in the hospital wing, telling him to _run away_, and him feeling that maybe James and Remus weren't the only ones who understood him. And that fell into the image of Larka bowing her head and refusing his kiss, not the first time he'd failed to kiss but the first time it felt like a real rejection, when he first recognized that the strange sensation of spring shoots uprooting in his chest was what popular songs sang about. And Larka standing between him and Sniv—Snape, wobbly and terrified but as unyielding as any soldier he had ever seen. And Larka having cold trembling hands as she faced Remus but despite her prevailing fear of werewolves was brave and good and kind and better than he deserved and selfishly taking his side so that he wouldn't be completely alone, exactly the way he needed. And Larka fitting against him on the grass over the summer at James's when he did finally run away, every inch of her skin welded to his and him never wanting to leave and realizing with a slow burning intensity that this was _love_ and being completely frightened by it but her strength leaking to him through their contact and he stayed, and discovered that he was in fact capable of love after all.

But he couldn't even continue thinking, because he was assaulted with endless, infinite Larkas, all rushing back to him, vivid in a way that Azkaban had taken from him. It was like she was a ghost, still and ubiquitous, folded around and within every single instance of happiness—for even if she was not the source, the thought of sharing a happiness with her had been in itself a happiness. He wondered: had he really had such a luminous, coherent soul? Was he—could he—had he been—

But he knew he wasn't recapturing his old self, what he had been long ago, in Hogwarts or that garden in Kent or even his post-school apartment—he was not who he was in his youth. Neither she nor him were immune to change, to time passing even when it stood frozen in the windowless prison cell, and the scenes of Larkas and happinesses were vanishing even as he remembered them.

But he wasn't disappointed like he thought he would be.

**-.-.-**

She took his hand, the hesitancy that she felt with her first step falling from her like peeling, sunburnt skin, and all of a sudden, everything _changed_. She was acutely aware of every prickle along her fingertips, each particle of dust that she breathed in, each strand of hair straying out of her hair, each slow thought that unfurled. She couldn't describe it any better than that, and knew with a sort of raw certainty that it was an ephiphanous moment.

She realized that as long as she lived, however she lived, Sirius would be—was already—woven into it. And for Sirius, she was—

Oh ruddy Merlin, Remus was right: eerily and unpleasantly right. She had been punishing Sirius for her crime. It was hardly fair that she withdrew from Sirius when she was as woven into him as he was for her, just because she had to run away.

It was time to make it right.

* * *

* The good thing about Sirius's various nicknames and namesakes was that it was very easy to come up with different aliases. Moddey Star was the story boy, and now Arpad Altair was the conveniently alliterated third cousin once removed. Larka almost threw in a 'née Macmillan' for kicks, to see if Castor would notice a man having a woman's name-at-birth attachment. He wouldn't have, just for the record. Also he didn't know that Larka's mother was born as Macmillan, so it really would have been pointless.

** Missus Roxburgh née Macmillan was _not_ from Italy, she would like to disclaim. The Italians had grown to be an uncivilized, rowdy bunch since the fall of the Romans at the ending the Auratus (i.e. Golden) Age; (Missus Roxburgh was very well trained in Latin as a young lady and liked to show it).

* * *

Author's Note: Sorry for whoever looked forward to a huge blowup confrontation, but omgard that was one of my favorite scenes. Is it too narcissistic to gush about one's own chapters? Well I _am_ narcissistic, so there.

Also, ephiphanous is a word. I'm sure.

Also also, I'm hanging onto sanity by a thread but will update soon (ish) still. At least this was a long one!


	30. The Process of Healing

**Chapter 29**

**The Process of Healing**

Real changes were perceived after the Eve of Epiphany, for many people.

For Larka, she became distraught, often taking long walks in the evening after dinner until the wrong side of midnight. She couldn't bear to be alone with either Castor or Sirius, their eyes burning a scarlet letter into her heart. So instead, she taught lessons with much more vigor than before, made sure that food was always on the table, and tread her way with light steps. She knew she had to do something eventually, but for now, let her be her elusive ghost.

For Castor, he begun to see tell-tale signs that he was completely oblivious to before—like how Larka passed the salt without Pad needing to ask, and how Pad made Larka tea the way she liked it. How there was too much room between them when they both sat on the couch but neither took the armchair despite this discomfort. How Larka's eyes turned to Pad on average of fifteen times during a meal of average thirty-nine minutes to make sure he was still eating. How Pad gave her an extra wallop of Brussels sprouts whenever she cooked them and never bothered giving her a butter knife when he laid the table because she didn't eat butter with bread. How sometimes they exchanged looks with each other and had a domestic without a single word—how it was even _possible_ to do that. How if he took a picture with the two of them, it would be a beautiful one. They would look like a couple—they looked more like a couple than Castor and she did, and they were _married_ for God's sake, for more than _four years_. He didn't have any concrete evidence, but it was just a matter of time, he figured.

Surprisingly, he did not feel betrayed, only a little angry and slightly annoyed: angry that her fidelity was so easily broken, and annoyed that he hindered his career for _this_. He would have been somebody, gone further, published more, had not for marriage. Marriage, he knew, meant roasted pork chops and a warm house, and neither a full stomach nor a comfortable environment was mentally stimulating. His mind had been the sharpest in his twenties, and he certainly was not getting those years back by growing his beer belly out.

Funnily enough, he had always thought that _he_ would be the cheater in this relationship.

The problem with people was that they couldn't be mapped out like mathematical equations, and that was their downfall. So he turned his mind back to his numbers and squiggly symbols.

For Sirius, though, the changes were mostly good.

Many things were different in his Post-Azkaban life. He found that his mind was quieter now, but the quietness scared him too much, so he had tried to fill it with clamor and shuffling, crap telly and running water. Quietness used to mean horror from the Dementors, and he hadn't quite forgotten that. But slowly yet surely, Larka filled the silence with her warm presence, and the quietness was no longer quite as terrifying. Pretend-laughter became real laughter as Sirius learned how to walk and talk, like a toddler newly born. Speech came after laughter, and the showers did not run all night anymore.

(Changes were applicable to others as well. For example, Mabel and the Frenchie simultaneously dumped each other*, irrelevantly.)

The real change—the real healing—though, came about from Kelso Dorcas Meadows. (If Larka had been in a position to appreciate humor, she would have laughed at how it was always her friends who brought her closer to Sirius.)

The war was happening all over again, and Kelso's death was only the first among many. Her funeral though, was the first and one of the last public ones. Larka got an invitation—could it be called an _invitation_? Was that too casual a term?—in the mail, despite not having left Kelso an address when they parted thirteen years ago.

Magic was a wonderful thing, she ruminated as she tightened her grip on the heavy, cream paper. Magical owls were wonderful—there were many wonderful things in the world, _wonderful_, she reminded herself. It would not do to run away and keep away.

Sirius, bless him, opened the door and nearly slammed into Larka, dazed and standing in front of the door like she was hit by a Stupify spell. (He had gone out to get some honey, even though they had plenty of honey left, but the house was too quiet, too quiet.)

"Larka?" he could recognize the death-stricken look anywhere. (Dementors had a hand in that.)

"Kelso," she whispered out hoarsely.

Sirius almost remarked that no, his name was not Kelso, when he suddenly remembered the little, dumpy girl who drank a whole draught of Willful Potion just to tell him to stay away from Larka and what's-her-name, that leggy blonde. She had taken up her middle name, Dorcas, in the Order. He had been surprised to see her at the meeting, but her eyes held the same frightened, steely glint as that night that she confronted him. Dumbledore really knew how to handpick his people, he had thought then.

Right now, he half wished that Dumbledore wasn't so great at it.

"When is it?"

Larka was too dazed to wonder how he had known exactly what was wrong without her telling him, so she passed the invitation to him.

It was standard Order parchment. Fletcher always took care of the stationary, claimed that he had some sort of understanding with one of the manufacturers, and nobody had questioned it when Mundungus Fletcher said he had an 'understanding'. The paper was the thick, luxurious kind, with a simple black lining, as if expensive paper somehow signified the goodness of the dead. Sirius had seen too many of these papers, twelve years ago and also in the darkness of his prison cell.

Sirius was a fanciful sort of person, and so the things that tormented him the most in prison were not memories, but rather his imagination. The funeral invitations that he saw always read 'James and Lily Potter', and occasionally 'Harry Potter'. He saw Remus threw himself from the Big Ben. He saw Remus becoming part of the Dark Lord's werewolf gang just to prove him right in a sick, twisted revenge. He saw Larka walk into a river with a sinking charm. He saw Larka burned alive for associating with him. He saw James skinned and boiled in hell for his crime. He saw a great many things, and his imagination was one of the reasons that he remembered more things than the other prisoners. His cell always drew the most Dementors**. In the end, he was sort of glad for it.

He was also glad that his mind shut up now, and he could lead Larka in and talk instead of scream.

Larka sighed, and allowed herself to be guided inside by Sirius's gentle arms.

**-.-.-.-**

The day of Kelso's funeral was a dark, cold day.

Larka was already on the Brighton to London Victoria train before she realized that she could probably figure out the Floo Network. She then consoled herself with the fact that she didn't have any Floo powder at hand anyway as she transferred to the E8 bus. She got off at the Grosvenor stop, and could see the expanse of the cemetery even before getting off the vehicle.

It was a relatively small cemetery, and Larka smiled despite herself at the memory of Sirius being genuinely befuddled that it was not at Highgate Cemetery. It was so hearteningly human to have to remind him that no, not everybody got buried in a Grade I historic site and natural reserve. Of course he waved it off, saying darkly that no amount of ceremony or tears would do the dead the least bit of good, but Larka was optimistic.

She nearly went into the Hanwell Cemetery by mistake, until she spotted a small crowd across the street at the other cemetery, also called Hanwell sometimes just to confuse visitors surely.

The crowd overflowed into the space of next grave, a CWGC headstone. (Commonwealth personnel from one of the World Wars, Larka mused on how bitterly fitting it was.) Larka weaved her way to the middle, making sure to avoid standing next to anybody she knew personally.

A black and white portrait of Kelso stood there, her pleased, round face peering out at the crowd, waving to the occasional familiar face. She looked far older than Larka remembered, and Larka realized with a jolt that it must have been taken only a while ago. It was surreal to come face to face with the fact that the people who resided solely within her memories had aged in real life, although Larka didn't know what she had expected.

An old, heavy man stood by the portrait, apparently ready to deliver a eulogy.

He didn't look like the sort who came up with good speeches, Larka thought, and pondered if she was resentful that nobody asked _her_ to give a word. Instead, this man that she had never seen before was going to summarize Kelso's life. Larka supposed that she lost the right to speak when she stopped talking to Kelso, but that knowledge only made her stomach churn guiltily.

From his speech, Larka gathered that the man—Doge was his name—had been coworkers with Kelso and a father figure. Larka wondered when that had happened. She couldn't even remember what Kelso's job was, although she was quite sure she had inquired about it when they had tea, so very long ago.

"… never had the world seen a woman more ready to offer loyalty and love, for she had risen to our calls not once, but twice, and she gave all she had for our cause. There is no death more sacred or honorable, and while we are left to mourn and carry on, she will dwell in peace at last. A great man had once said, 'No one knows whether death is really the greatest blessing a man can have, but they fear it is the greatest curse, as if they knew well.***' We indeed know death too well, and yet not at all, so let Kelso charge in for us, like she has done so many times before …"

She couldn't breathe. What she meant was that she couldn't seem to get any oxygen in her lungs despite taking loud, heavy breaths of air, and her head felt light and heavy and dizzy and oh Merlin she couldn't _breathe_.

The short, older woman with a mass of red curls next to her laid a hand on her arm worriedly, "Dearie," she whispered, "A bit of air?"

She couldn't tell if she was able to nod or not, but in any case the woman—a Prewett, Larka faintly thought—took her arm forcefully—thank goodness because she couldn't move her feet—and led her away from the procession.

"There, dearie," the woman mothered, "Long deep breaths. Call me if you need anything, I'll be right here."

_In. Hold. Out. Repeat._

Slowly her panic subsided, as did that bright white light, and she recovered herself.

She had to leave—not the funeral, but _leave_. Again. Or go back, whichever the proper metaphorical directional term was. She had to leave this Muggle life of commonplace anxieties and sacrifices. Kelso had ruddy _died_, cold and rotting, and would be soon left to rot alone.

How could she go back to dinner parties, clucking regretfully that little Eveline did not make it to the private school, and nodding emphatically when her father tried to reverse a whole year's excited rambles with 'I never cared for their program; they stifle all creativeness'? How could she go back to listening to Doyle, her advisee, figure out whether he should go keep his Jewish father's store after graduation or leave the country in a boat with his best mate Charles? How could she go back to discussing with her fellow teachers whether the trip to the fair at Araby cost too much for the effort, and pretending to pay attention to Joe when he smoked and talked about sending his mother Maria to one of those homes? How could she go back to smiling and lying to make Grace like her more so that Castor might gain a vote when the board invariably gave the Head of Engineering to the younger Professor O'Connor? How could she go back to standing by Mabel's side in her passive aggressive battles, not wincing as Mabel sarcastically called herself a libertine for being divorced, and the sarcasm lost to Mrs. Cummingham and Mrs. Kim who lived down the street?

Those were her wars for these four years: trench wars.

(She needed to pull herself together.)

She should go back in to thank Molly Weasley. Goodness how had she forgotten the vicious death of Fabian and Gideon Prewett, and Molly's marriage to Arthur Weasley? It was ridiculously rude of her to require tending from such a woman, when Molly had shouldered much more tragedy and death than Larka.

Larka took one last hardening breath and went back, just in time for the flowers. Those who brought bouquets and other assortments left it cluttered near the headstone. Larka quickly conjured up the irises that she saw outside of a yard on the bus here, and hoped that it was alright with the household. Irises had been Kelso's favorite, and it looked like not a lot of people here knew that. She supposed that favorite flowers wasn't a topic that came up naturally outside of school.

She checked her wristwatch. 4:13 on a Sunday afternoon. Castor was watching the Sunday chess tourney, undoubtedly. She thought about taking the bus and train back, but the long journey by herself felt overbearingly depressive even in her mind. So she decided to Apparate into Sirius's room, just in case Castor was in their bedroom.

_Crack_. She needed to get used to the swerving and the nausea of Apparating.

Sirius greeted her with a wand in her face, snarling and every muscle in his body ready for action.

Larka smiled at him wearily, and didn't even bother wondering when he would be able to react less violently to loud noises.

"Pad?" Castor's voice carried from the living room. For the first time Larka wished that Castor was a fan of footie instead, so that the sound might have drowned out her return. "Everything alright?"

"Just peachy," Sirius barked back. "Get out this way and re-enter the house so he wouldn't get suspicious," he told her as he waved his wand and muttered something.

The outer wall facing the yard glimmered almost unperceivably. "What did you do?" Larka asked with surprise.

"Same trick as the wall in King's Cross," Sirius muttered and tried not appear too pleased at the look of marvel that Larka gave him.

"Where did you pick that up?"

His mood darkened again, "Useful when you're a wanted man."

Larka sighed and laid a soft hand on his arm. "Someday, you know, we'll restore your name."

"It's not my bloody name, it's—" he cut himself off. "How was the service?"

"It was … good. As good as funeral services go, I suppose."

"I see," he said, not seeing at all. Sirius had made a point to avoid all funerals back when he was in the Order, and so his only experience with such a spectacle was the elaborate and completely insincere funerals that his parents dragged him to in his youth. He couldn't even begin to imagine a 'good' ceremony of death.

Not that Larka could, either. "This man, Doge, gave the tribute."

Sirius let himself bark out a laugh, "That old tosser? Was it good? If it was, he probably reused some speech that Dumbledore gave."

"How do you know Doge?" she asked. Her coat was stifling her in the heat of the room, but she didn't see the point of taking it off since she was going to head out in a moment anyway; but this was interesting, this was curious, and she needed to know more about Sirius, even if (especially if) it was Sirius from Before.

"Co-worker," he said vaguely.

"You were co-workers with Kelso?" she asked incredulously. There was a faint smell of betrayal too, about thirteen years too late.

"I …" and maybe thirteen years was enough time to let him learn that truth was better than protection sometimes, because he finally confessed, "I was in the Order with both of them."

"Is that what you lot called it?" This was the first time that she let him know that she knew, perhaps not enough, but certainly more than he wanted for her to know—or thought she did—at the time. She thought perhaps her voice was more bitter than she intended—but what the hell, let him _know _that she was bitter. And why shouldn't she be? She had done everything to be what he needed, what their relationship needed, and maybe it was time that he acknowledged that.

"The Order of the Phoenix," he expounded, "Dumbledore's organization to fight Death Eaters. We were—are his army."

Larka gave no response to that.

"That was what I was doing, you know, back then," he said.

"I know _now_."

He fidgeted: a strange look for Sirius. Larka was not a confrontational person, and he didn't know how to make it better, guilty and ashamed of his boyhood blindness and how much he had made Larka suffer, even if he didn't mean to. It was still his fault.

"Well, I'll go out now," she said while not looking at him, not quite ready to forgive yet.

"Alright," he replied, eager to please.

Larka stepped through the wall as if it was air, out into the yard. The day was indeed a dark, cold one, with heavy clouds in the April sky. The biting coldness was almost welcome after overheating in the room. Her borage flowerbed was depressingly shriveled and barren, but in June they will begin to bloom again—or maybe July, as it had been a very harsh winter. Maybe, when she's older, she would retire to a milder climate, where her blue star-shaped flowers could bloom all year around. She would like that.

She thought of Sardinia Island, yearlong unbroken sunshine, and a light, playful breeze as she unlocked the front door and walked in.

"I thought you wouldn't be back until later," Castor glanced at her then quickly turned his attention back to the telly. It sounded like a pathetic excuse when a wife walked in on her husband in the middle of an affair, but Castor was just lounged on the couch, facing a television that showed a chessboard, with some low, male voice giving commentary.

"It was short," she explained.

"Whose funeral was it again?" he asked rather carelessly.

"My old friend from school."

"Close?" he inquired at her voice, full of mellow emotion.

"One of the closest," Larka said almost wistfully.

"Ah." Castor fidgeted with the edge of his sleeve, and Larka knew that he was having a hard time finding the appropriately consoling words. She walked to him, smiling, and laid a soft hand on his arm, "You are a kind man," she whispered.

His face fell.

Larka knew that kindness was not as straightforward a compliment as it used to be, but she had meant it with all her heart, not a single sarcastic or condescending string tied in there. There was an overflowing wealth of emotion in her, brought on by Kelso, by Sirius, by Caius, and she couldn't stop herself from speaking. "Her death means something more than just losing an old friend. I can see the waves coming, in the looming future. There are things to do." Larka knew that Castor must think that she was over-dramatizing everything, but how could _he_ know of the horrors of war? He was not even acquainted with the horrors of love, despite being married twice now. Both of his marriages—well, this one was going to, shortly—died in a lethargic crawl of habitualization.

Larka had found him so attractive because of his dependability—Castor could not go outside of routine if he was shoved with the end of a gun. She had craved this unmoving stability, a constant even if everything else swerved around him.

"You are a kind man, Castor," she repeated gravely.

"But?" he was uncommonly confrontational today.

"Kelso's death made me think of many things."

"Things like what, exactly?" He was beginning to catch on the somberness in her tone, but a fleeting sort of foreboding passed over his mind.

"Even in her death she has done me a great service," she continued to be non-sequitur.

"What _is_ it?" he asked impatiently.

"I think, Castor, that I might get a house close to the school in the summer, for when I start teaching in Scotland."

"Doesn't your family have something up north? And I thought the school provided housing?" his brows knit together in confusion. Castor knew that Larka got an allowance of a thousand pounds a year from some property the Roxburghs owned, some old relic site somewhere in Scotland.

"The school's in the Highlands and it doesn't provide lodging for summers and I would like to be away for Christmas break," she tried to gently insinuate her departure.

"I don't understand, won't you be coming home for Christmas?" There were now lines all over his forehead, and Larka wanted to smooth it out of habit.

"That's why I need to get a place."

"I don't understand," he repeated adamantly.

"I'm not coming back," she said, a little breathless and a little awed.

A silence stood between them, during which her words sank in. A slow anger burned white-hot in Castor's eyes as he grasped what she was saying. "This is it? After five ruddy years?"

"Four and five months," she corrected him with unnecessary accuracy.

"It's about Pad isn't it?" he spat out.

Larka wanted to say no, this was about her, but couldn't bring herself to. "Things are happening to me again, Castor. And I want things to happen … _I_ want it." _I've got to stop running away, start running again, running back. Please understand_.

He didn't answer her, but pushed past her and walked out of the door. Bumping her shoulder had been a little immature, but Larka excused him due to the circumstances.

Larka automatically turned and chased after him. Castor hadn't even brought a coat in his haste to leave her company, so Larka grabbed his usual dark parka on the coatrack by the door. A slight wind had picked up, and a few small snowflakes tumbled in the air. April was hardly the month for snow****, but it was definitely cold enough for it this year, an unusually cold and strange year.

Only after coming out did Larka realize that she had nothing to say to Castor, so she watched his retreating form stride further and further away, his hands shoved into his pant pockets and his shoulders hunched in anger. Perhaps it was best to let him walk it off? Larka was not used to dealing with an overtly emotional Castor, so she just remained there helplessly as he walked everything there was left of them off.

The door closed behind her, a muted, familiar click in the silence.

"What did you say to him?" It was Sirius, who shouldn't really be out here without either a hat or a disguise charm and goodness he wasn't wearing a coat either!

"That I'm leaving," she responded dazedly, unfolding the parka and draping it over his shoulders.

"Leaving?" he seemed surprised. Larka didn't know why he was—after all, it had been inevitable, had it not? The moment Sirius Black came back, there was little she could do but let herself be reeled away from this stable life. "_Leaving_ leaving?"

"Yeah," she said, a little sadder than she had anticipated.

"Hmm," Sirius hummed and gingerly put an arm around her, giving her ample time to turn away.

She stood stiller than a slate of stone.

"You, erm," he tried, "want to talk? About it?"

It wasn't right, she thought, for Sirius to take up the role of the healer. She didn't think it was fair either, so Larka put her best into saying airily, "Oh it had been coming for a while, good to get it off my chest." She knew him of all people could taste the difference between real and fake nonchalance, but it wasn't for his sake.

Gentle, feathery nothings were floating to lie on top of them as they stood like monuments, just like the snowflakes. Larka could feel the ice melting where it touched her skin, and whatever resentment she held towards Sirius—resentment that she didn't even realize she had—melted away with the snow.

They all suffered, but it wasn't Sirius's fault—or hers. They were all sorry, and that was enough.

* * *

* The fascinating story spun by Sirius made both Mabel Harper and Guy Durand-David realize that their relationship would never work. Mabel decided that she wanted an American, not a Frenchman, and Guy found out that he was gay. This would forever be a testimony to the boundlessness of Sirius's charms, he would assert. In fact he briefly entertained the idea of etching it on his gravestone. Larka, thankfully, made him give up on that. (Mabel later decided that he hated Americans, but that would be _so_ irrelevant that it did not even deserve a place in a footnote.)

** If anybody remembers still, the Dementor who had given Sirius his letter sometimes floated nearby cell #47 frequently, to catch fragments of his rambled shouts. Sirius had been the most verbose of his charges by far, and he appreciated the insight into human misery. The Dementor was eventually fired from Azkaban for being too involved with his prisoners.

*** That would be Plato. Doge was a very well-read Classicist, if he could quote Plato, for Plato was known best in the wizarding world for the anecdote of him faithfully following Socrates into a bath house that was a renowned whorehouse. Of course, young Plato had not known of the house's reputation, for he had been an uncorrupted youth at the time. Socrates later claimed that it was a social experiment, in which he would engage in conversations with men in the thrones of passion. Plato backed that it was indeed an _experiment._

**** They came up with a witty name for it, nine years later, when April snow happened again: Arctic April, the BBC newsreader with the bobbed blonde hair called it. Larka had long stopped watching Muggle news though, so she could proudly claim that she came up with the name all by herself.

* * *

Author's Note: Alas, Kelso's sacrifice was necessary to break the stalemate. A little anticlimactic for a 'blowup confrontation', but Larka isn't a very confrontational person. Also, some liberties were taken with the timeline of the war...for the purpose of the story, just imagine that the return of Voldemort was something more like rumors spreading slowly from Harry's third year, rather than a shock when Cedric died. I've always thought that the purebloods sort of _knew_ before anyhow.

Also, I would so keep that Dementor as a pet, if he wouldn't make me awfully depressed.


	31. The Role of the Hero

**Chapter 30**

**The Role of the Hero**

**_3:32PM – July 10th, 1994 – Novak Residence, Hogsmeade Village, Aberdeenshire_**

_Knock, knock._

"Gosh, just a second!" a voice rang from inside the house, friendly and slightly flustered.

Larka waited faithfully at the door, holding a plate of dog-shaped biscuits, and looked down at Sirius the dog. Sirius woofed in what Larka assumed to be an encouraging manner.

"Hullo," the door opened to show a plump, matronly woman, wiping her hands on her apron but missing the small spot of flour on her left cheek. "Oh!" she was taken back by the bearish dog besides Larka, unleashed and sniffing the air for biscuit batter.

"Hullo," Larka greeted in return, and tried her best to be disarming and charming, "Mrs. Novak? I'm Larka Roxburgh. I just rented the place next door, thought I'd introduce myself—and my dog—with some biscuits."

She had been doing this all afternoon; it was essential that every one of the residents in the small neighborhood bordering Hogsmeade got used to the sight of Sirius. His size and ominous color could be alarming for some, and she needed to make sure he could roam freely without anybody thinking twice about it. This particular house was the last one, to the left of their cottage, with a door that spelled out 'Novak' in bright yellow letters.

"Oh, you took that lovely little cottage then! We had been wondering who snatched that up; it's been empty for so long! Do come in, dear, I've been baking 'em as well. Would you like to try an oatmeal one?" the woman let them in, quite hospitable despite still being ever so slightly skirmish about the large black dog.

"Yes, I'm starting teaching at Hogwarts come September, so I got myself a place here—it's really an adorable cottage, if a bit dusty; quite a steal too!"

"I'm sure you cleaned up the place spiffily! Lots of professors buy houses here, it's really very convenient."

The genial small-talk went on. She was good at small-talk, Larka thought proudly, absentmindedly running her fingers through the fur at the top of Sirius's head.

The last few months had been awkward, at best. Since she still taught at the University of Brighton, she couldn't very well just up and leave, so she had stayed in their—Castor's—house in Brighton. She slept in a separate bedroom, of course, and poor Sirius had to make do with the couch, but he barely complained. Or at least he complained less than Larka had expected him to.

The day they set out for Scotland had felt like liberation day. Larka was vaguely guilty about it, but Sirius the dog was sniffing every stray pebble and she was distracted by chasing after him and making sure he wasn't run over.

She liked _this_ though, Larka thought as she smiled at Mrs. Novak, who was warmly pouring out another cup of tea and indicating for her to eat more biscuits. She missed the exact domesticity that had buried her marriage with Castor—but the domestic scene was not the same with Sirius, was it? No, with Sirius it was like shaping a jungle compared to mowing a front lawn with Castor. Every day was an ongoing battle in the war to have him be satisfied with the domestic and not saving the world or some silly, noble goal. She hadn't succeeded yet, but maybe one day she would.

September wasn't far now, and the future looked as bright as the smile that she gave Mrs. Novak.

* * *

**_9:40AM – August 21st, 1994 – Barcombe Road, Brighton, East Sussex_**

Mabel was in a romper that was two decades old in both fashion and fit. She was clearly dressed for physical labor, and had commanded her latest boyfriend (a Texas cowboy—Larka never understood Mabel's taste in men) to make sure the two kids didn't electrocute themselves*.

Larka made sure to pick a day when Castor would not be there.

The papers were left on the table in the living room, and Larka signed them hastily. It had been a quiet and easy affair, and they didn't need a lawyer because she left everything to Castor—the house, the car, the wedding china, and so on forth. They were neither practically useful to her (Sirius's vault was larger in size than her parents' _house_, and what need did she have of a car now that she could appear anywhere with a loud crack?), nor emotionally significant. In fact, this was her apology to Castor. She knew that it wasn't enough, and it wasn't even a real apology, but she also knew that Castor would appreciate it. That's how his mind worked—all numbers and tangible effects.

The telly was left on a chess program, and Larka didn't particularly fancy the thought of listening to the droning commentary of her past life, so she turned it off. Mabel habitually made a noise of complaint, before realizing that nothing good was on Sunday morning and she was here to help Larka pack anyway.

Larka had a surprisingly small selection of personal effects for the number of years she lived in this house. It was mostly just her closet and a few sentimental decorations—although all the cookware and clockworks was Castor's now, legally.

Mabel, the good woman, turned her back when Larka sneaked in her favorite tea mug, dependably large and in an unusually saturated Persian blue glaze. In return for this favor, Larka did not tell Mabel that the white feathers she found (and had woven into a bracelet) were not the remains from a gift from Castor, but rather the natural shedding of a snowy owl that always found her way to Sirius.

When she said goodbye to Mabel and the house, she pleaded, "Keep in touch."

She would this time, really, not like with Novia and Kelso. There were some things that seemed to require far too much effort in younger days; but she now knew better.

Perhaps she would even write a letter and tenderly invite them—invite Novia to tea. It felt like she owed that much, if not to Novia then herself. (And maybe Kelso.)

* * *

**_0:37AM – November 23rd, 1994 – Astronomy Staff Residence, Hogwarts Castle, Aberdeenshire_**

The kettle whistled and Sirius stuck his head halfway into the fire.

Larka poured boiling water into the ready tea cup—some things were better done without magic, and she felt that steeping tea was one of those things. As she swirled the loose leaves around with a miniature spoon, she thought on how nice it was to be able to drink tea in a warm room, with the love of her life giving probably illegal and definitely dangerous advice to his godson.

She followed the Tournament, of course—if only so that she would be able to understand Sirius's mad babbling as he paced on the wool carpet, dyed her favorite blue—but she didn't pretend to understand the necessity for such competition and drama. She supposed that unnecessary sports were a part of every civilization though, and forgave the wizardkind for their folly.

Sirius's hands were gesturing wildly as he was used to doing when he was telling a tall tale, or explaining some scheme. Larka sipped her Spring Snail tea—it had such a funny name, but it was a deep, aromatic green tea that she enjoyed, and she didn't enjoy many greens, so she bore Sirius's barking laughs when she brought back these tins with a tolerant grace that she learnt over her years. She wanted to tell Sirius that Harry couldn't _see_ his hands on the other side of the Floo fire, but that was because she was feeling pragmatic.

It was a bit silly, wasn't it—communicating with Harry via a fire when they were within a fifteen minute walk of each other? But Sirius had insisted that he was to be on vacation in Curacao (something about blue Curacao and maintaining the Marauder mystique; nothing that Larka questioned). He gave a fabulous talk about flamingos and tropical fruits though, she had to admit; in fact she had never heard of a Buddha's hand** prior to this, and thus spent the next ten minutes trying to visualize it.

By that time, Sirius had already turned out the flame and had finished talking to Harry about dragons.

* * *

**_4:07PM – December 22nd, 1994 – Postcard Teas, Marylebone, London_**

She lifted the glazed porcelain cup to her lips during the pause, despite that it was still too hot to drink. She tilted it just so, and let the scented steam come into her eyes.

Neither of them had anything to say after the generic 'How have you been?', 'Oh good, and you?', 'It's been a while', and 'It has been, and isn't the weather nice?'

Larka wondered why she had ordered jasmine tea—she discovered that she didn't like it at all when she first tried it in her preteen years, drawn to it by the charming name. When it came to her turn to order, because she was so nervous at seeing Novia again, in her anxiousness she blurted out jasmine. The café was much more quaint and pricey than she was used to, but Novia had suggested it as one of her favorite spots and Larka was eager to please. Six pounds was too much for a cuppa she didn't even like, though. She gave a small sigh, and immediately regretted it—what if Novia took it the wrong way and thought that she was bored? Or if Novia thought it was her way of saying 'let's wrap things up'? They had barely started!

Novia did flicker her eyes up to Larka quickly, but she cast them down again to her own pale blue cup containing Earl Grey.

Now Earl Grey: that was a cup for all occasions—enough milk and honey, and even a blind mouse can't mess Earl Grey up, Larka thought wistfully.

"Do you like it?" Novia asked after she set her cup down carefully, still making a clear clinking noise though.

"What?"

"The tea, I mean, do you like the tea here?"

"Oh yes," Larka blushed, "It's quite lovely."

"I'm glad," Novia gave her a smile and they fell again into an awkward silence.

"So you live around here, eh?" she asked Novia.

"No, no," Novia shook her cascading blonde hair, as pale and beautiful as when she was a girl, "Chester and I live at his family's place, ever since, you know, his folks passed."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Larka apologized politely.

"No need," Novia waved her hand up, "It was a while ago, and Chester wasn't the closest to them anyway. No pureblood boy is!"

That was a rather unfair statement, as Larka knew that James had been very close with his parents, and had been devastated when they fell prey to the dragon pox that plagued many aging wizards. She smiled and nodded her head though, both out of social etiquette and that it warmed her heart that Novia was still so innocently judgmental after all these years.

Thirteen years, it had been—since they bade each other goodbye with an implicit good luck. Novia got on fairly well, from the state of her accessories and her choice of tea, though Larka didn't know much about her now. She had sent a quick note with a Hogwarts owl and the tawny owl came back with a short but welcoming reply. The notes that they had exchanged since then were quite utilitarian, only dealing with the execution of the reunion and said nothing of their lives. But apparently Novia had settled down, as unimaginable as it was back in the day. This Chester though, was worth investigating into.

"Say," Larka asked, suddenly struck by a thought, "You wouldn't happen to mean the Chester who was a year above us?"

Novia beamed at Larka's memory, "Why, that's exactly him! I didn't think you would remember him!"

Oh but she did, if only a fuzzy image of dark hair and a rounded, square face. She remembered him because at some point there was some scandal—or what teenage girls called scandal—concerning him and some Slytherin-sympathizing girl who shared a room with Remus's girlfriend at the time. It was a very convoluted business, but Larka paid attention to it both out of obligation to get along with Remus's girlfriend, and that the scandal girl had expressed an interest in Sirius prior to this. Naturally she needed to guard her own.

(Goodness, she could remember a childish feud between classmates nearly two decades ago, but couldn't remember to order herself a good tea? She was going mad, absolutely mad.)

"I do remember him, barely," Larka admitted; she never particularly like Chester, not because of his associations with scandal girl Nott, but because she thought him a bit of a bore. But Larka would never be so mean as to say that to anyone. "But tell me about how it happened!" If it was one thing that women loved, it was talking about romance—the only thing to trump that was their _own_ romance.

"It's a silly story, one of those that I would have stuck my nose up at when we were young," Novia got a faraway look in her eyes, "But we met at St. Mungo's this one time, right around the end of that awful, ruddy war. Kelso got hurt and I was called in as the contact, and when I was filling out the usual forms when he came out the operating room and it turned out he was the assistant Healer. Can you imagine that!"

Larka wondered when this happened and why she wasn't told about it***.

"In any case," Novia continued with her romance, "Kelso was out cold for the next couple of hours, so I waited for her, and Chester asked if I wanted coffee with him on his break, and I said yes, and we got along so finely that I left with his number and Kelso with a superbly set shoulder. The rest, as they say, is history."

"That's a story to tell the grandkids! I'm so happy for you!"

"And you?" Novia asked naturally, "You a wife of any lucky bloke yet?"

"Well," Larka didn't see the need to lie, but she also didn't have the energy to deal with the treading-broken-glass sympathy that came along with being _divorced_. "No, not yet."

"Oh," Novia's face fell a little, and Larka was glad for her white lie, "Well one day, perhaps, if you want."

"One day," Larka promised herself and Sirius.

"Ah! And before you can bring it up, yes, there was that huge commotion with that Nott girl," Novia kindly took to gossiping again, before the silence could get awkward. "He told me all about their engagement and subsequent breakup, and how his mum sent him Howlers for a _month_—but thankfully to his room in private, but Merlin his roommates wanted to _murder_ him!"

"Right, the Nott girl, she married into Greengrass, right?"

"Yes, very prettily done," Novia's tone betrayed her childhood unfriendly disposition towards women who made marriage their life goal. "We laughed about the whole affair, of course, but I do remind him of his madness once in a while!"

If Novia hadn't upturned her entire personality, Larka would bet fifty quid—five sickles that Novia never let him rest a day without reminding him of it, and Chester Fawley was on a lifelong quest of atonement in his wife's eyes. She would have preached about the importance of compromising in a relationship, but she caught herself. They weren't like how they were in the old days anymore, and besides, Novia was evidently happily married and Larka was divorced and living with a fugitive on the run who ruined her life when he got thrown into prison—she was one to give relationship advice.

"I'm sure _once in a while_," Larka did allow herself to tease though. "Speaking of old acquaintances at Hogwarts, guess where I'm working now?"

There was no greater icebreaker than reminiscing about when they were all a bunch of kids, so the rest of the reunion went by swiftly and delightfully.

By the end of the day, Larka settled a drunken Novia into the arms of Chester Fawley (for of course tea turned into a round at the pub before heading home for a late dinner). She decided that it was a fine if brisk night for a stroll, and the Christmas pines that she could see through foggy windows were a jolly sight, so she ambled leisurely through London streets with her guardian dog until her ears got too cold.

* * *

**_9:14AM – March 11th, 1995 – First Floor Corridors, Hogwarts, Aberdeenshire_**

Coming up from the kitchen quarters, Larka felt quite pleased with herself. The elves were, as always, extremely understanding and accommodating, and promised her to pack only half of what they would have prepared and use oil and salt very sparingly.

The moment that Sirius began his argument of going _alone_ this Saturday, Larka knew that he had told Harry to bring lots of unhealthy food. She knew him too well. She also knew Hogwarts life too well, and that Harry didn't have any other source beyond the house elves to acquire extra food outside of meal hours.

So she let herself be convinced by Sirius to stay behind when he sneaked into Hogsmeade to meet his godson and his little companions, and took matters into her own hands. Of course she wouldn't deny Sirius of his treat—she had been denying him grease and fat since his body was still recovering from years of neglect and malnutrition, and one must regain weight very carefully and scientifically. He had been rather good about it, or as good as Sirius got when it came to orders, even implicit ones. No, she would let him gorge a little on chicken wings and pastries, but with a limit. She would also let him have his illusion of breaking free of her regime, allow him his little escapade into boyish rebellion, because she liked his boyish rebellion. It was certainly better than nightmares and moping.

Hogwarts wasn't easy on Sirius—he saw it as confinement too much, and the invading memories of the happy years of his life were painful. Hogwarts walls peeled with memory, and while the Dementors stole most of the happy ones, Hogwarts gave them back, which was a torture in its own kind, as Sirius saw so clearly what he had and would never have again.

It was easier for her, of course. Despite her long periods of agonizing and self-ostracism (or perhaps because of it), it was painfully clear once she stood next to Sirius that she was the untainted one.

* * *

**_6:50PM – June 19st, 1995 – Headmaster's Office, Hogwarts Castle, Aberdeenshire_**

"I refuse to live through the first War again," she said with her back straight and eyes steely, "I refuse to stay at home and know nothing."

The cat, as the saying went, was out of the bag. The Dark Lord was back, unequivocally—she wasn't foolish enough to doubt Dumbledore, even if Harry seemed a little hysterical. Besides, her place was with Sirius, wherever he stood, she had decided long ago. It just didn't seem _fair_, what all of them were asking out Sirius, having barely shaken off the first layer of Azkaban. Sirius was eager to fulfill his role though, although unhappy about going back to _that place_, and so she was here fighting to fulfill her role.

"While your spirit is admirable," Dumbledore—Albus said, his calm voice grating Larka's nerves even more. "It's highly inadvisable since even at Hogwarts, your Defense Against—"

"This is not school anymore," Larka interrupted him with a gush of brashness, "And there are many things to do beyond rushing heedlessly into battle!" Larka was mortified that she broke off Albus Dumbledore, the man who many saw as the pillar of the once-again crumbling world, but held her ground, not even lowering her chin a fragment of an inch.

She wasn't a hero, and for most of her adult life she had been lying about even the very fabric of her being. The others had heroism in them—she could see it in Sirius, in Remus, even in Severus Snape and the little bushy-haired Hermione. Their eyes spoke of conviction, if nothing else. But her? All she ever wanted was a warm home with Sirius.

But if a hero he wanted to be, then a heroine she had to learn to be, because damn it if she was hiding in the corner again. She would stand by him, and strive for whatever he strove for.

The Headmaster looked at her as if he finally saw her standing in front of him. He had not known Larka to interrupt anybody in her seven years at Hogwarts, and it did not seem like she gained a temper afterwards either. "If you feel so strongly," he finally decided, "Then you may join Sirius in the upkeep of 12 Grimmauld Place as our headquarters."

"Thank you, Albus," she nodded appreciatively and calmly, feeling for the first time grown up enough to call the Headmaster by his first name, and Larka suddenly understood why he insisted on the first-name basis for everybody.

* * *

* Mabel had absolutely no faith in her children—they exhibited a hereditary tendency for destructive curiosity. Their late father had died when he was assembling one of his sculptural pieces—Mabel called them avant-garde to be nice—and electrocuted himself with one of the wires. If death could be comic, that would be the one instance for it. Even Mabel must have thought so, for during labor she laughed at the thought and the resulting contraction of her stomach muscles delivered Penelope. Pan had worse luck, for Mabel had turned to crying (high hormone levels) and Pan could barely crawl out. The twins showed an early fascination with sharp edges, tall heights, and electric sockets. If one would call Larka overtly anxious, then at least she was not unduly so when she babysat these twins.

** Sirius had never technically _seen_ a Buddha's hand—it was one of those embellished stories in which he took others' experiences and turned it into his own. In fact, if he were ever inclined to accumulate fame as well as notoriety, he would give Gilderoy Lockhart a good run for his money. He had eaten a purple mangosteen though, in his defense; he just thought that mangosteen sounded less epic and also had an inkling suspicion that the bloke who gave it to him made the name up. Really, _mangosteen_?

*** It would have eased Larka Roxburgh's mind to know that the reason Kelso Meadows didn't call _her_ along with Novia Fawley (then still Brooks) was because the Order Members were all instructed to keep the connections between each other to a minimum. So it was really a traceable association with Sirius Black that Kelso was avoiding, and the omission did not, in any sense, reflect on her friendship with Larka. This tidbit, however, would forever be lost in history, as Larka was not one to complain about her worries or hurts, and so Sirius never had the chance to explain the probable cause. And, of course, Kelso was in no position to tell anything being dead and all.

* * *

Author's Note: I felt slightly more experimental with the format of the narrative, hope it wasn't too jarring. This chapter more or less follows the fourth book, spanning over a year. Also, disclaimer maybe (?) that Postcards Tea is real and by no means a sponsor of this story (I wish).

I hope you enjoyed this chapter, because this is my version of 'happy interlude'...

And REVIEWS are better than any exotic fruit or blue curacao.


	32. A House Not Meant to Stand

Because G asked.

Note: Er, warning about mature content in this chapter, I suppose? Nothing explicit, but thought I should be cautious. I can't write smut if my life depended on it... I doubt twelve-yea-olds would like/read this story anyway.

* * *

**Chapter 31**

**A House Not Meant to Stand**

At the hour of dinner, ten minutes before Big Ben struck eight on the first of July, a woman appeared on the walkway in Islington, London. The haze seemed worse with the setting sun, and shrouded the vicinity in a thick cloak, barely allowing the human eye to peer out to see the brass plate numbers along the houses. The woman counted patiently as she marched forward.

_Eight._

_Nine._

_Ten._

_Eleven._

_Thirteen._

She stopped abruptly, a figure as straight as the lamppost beside her, the matte black staffs glinting roughly in the unforgiving sun, blazing still at the dust of its life. A soft orb glowed faintly on top of it, despite the abundance of daylight, creating a moon of sorts.

_Ahem_, she cleared her throat.

Well, this was it—the house that haunted Sirius for the years he lived here, and the years after he left; and also the house that he returned to, that _they_ returned to.

She cleared her throat. A whisper was cast to the haze, and she disappeared behind the door, which disappeared with her.

**-.-.-.-**

Larka woke up in the middle of the night, very annoyed and tried to turn over to get back to sleep. It took her approximately eighty-four seconds to realize that she had woken up to screaming. Sirius screaming.

She sighed. It was happening again, apparently. A week living in the old house undid all the soul-patching that she managed in the last _year_.

She peeled the green silk quilt off of herself—her spine was uncomfortably moist from lying on her back during the night—and dragged herself up. The bed was an enormous sea of green and silver silk, abnormally and unnecessarily large, spanning more than two meters in both length and width, which was why Sirius was far enough to dream and flail without hitting Larka.

She, half asleep, rolled with little grace and collapsed next to Sirius, getting elbowed in the arm in the process. "Sirius," she murmured through a yawn, "Wake up."

He did, but his eyes showed her no recognition or love, and Larka groggily wrapped an arm around him: bodily contact helped recovery from traumatic events, she had read on this new internet thing.

It did seem to help, as Sirius had curled up next to her and no longer was threatening to punch her in the eye. "Everything's okay," she continued murmuring, her mouth close to his ear, "I'm right here." She absentmindedly kissed the skin closest to her mouth, and felt his earlobe jerk away a little.

Sirius turned towards her, and sought her lips out. He kissed her with roughness and panic, and Larka finally woke up entirely.

He didn't wait for her to open her mouth even, before intruding with his tongue and ransacking her own tongue, with a fierceness that felt too much like desperation. There was the faint, unpleasant taste of sleep, and his arms were too hot to bear in the muggy heat, but Larka could feel the veins along his skin burst with a hectic rhythm. There was stubble along his jaw—he had been too lazy to shave the day before—and it now scratched against her neck as he moved his face there. It wasn't a nice feeling—prickly and a bit painful to be honest—but something about it lit her body on fire.

When Larka reciprocated his roughness with a hand clawing at his back, he shifted over and pushed himself on top of her with ease. Larka let him, partly detached and partly excited, forgetting to breathe for a short bit, until the weight of him squeezed all air out of her. Her pajama top was already halfway open, the top two buttons ripped out, so she wiggled to get the pants off, clashing with Sirius's efforts to do the exact same. He was already naked save for his boxers, so Larka could feel the stream of sweat rolling off his spine. She dug a nail along there, and he shuddered violently, nearly breaking her ribcage with the sudden force of him crashing into her. Their bare skin stuck against each other, but there was a strange gratification in the discomfort, and at the moment of entry, Larka felt more pain than pleasure. Release came not long after, and neither could move to break the clammy contact.

It wasn't very good sex—at least not for Larka, and she strongly suspected the same for Sirius—but it made sense in the moment.

The sleep that claimed them both afterwards, sweaty and exhausted from the exertion, was relatively peaceful. Sirius stayed on his side of the bed, and Larka only had two nightmares in which she was vaguely pursued in some sort of chase for her life, to be promptly forgotten once she rose in the morning anyhow. She liked to think that she took his nightmares and bore them for him.

Her morning call was the battle cries of doxies and boggarts, fighting for their survival against the matronly housekeeping of Molly Weasley. For a moment, sleep rubbed at the edges of her mind and she didn't understand where she was.

Until she caught the morning light gleaming off the elaborate ivory serpent sculpture that stood on the mantelpiece across from the bed. Ah, of course, she was at the House of Black to make it hospitable for the army of the Order. (Their missions often began with words like 'freedom' and 'justice', and that unnerved Larka because it invariably made her think of freedom fighters and vigilantism.)

It took her another moment to recognize the soft, ebbing noises were snores. Oh, right. He was still unused to waking up early, but she supposed that she ought to get down and give Molly a hand with the cleaning. At some point today, the Advance Guard would be escorting Harry Potter from Surrey in the southwest. She would let Sirius catch some rest though, since he would be too moody and would just insist on throwing everything out. His banishment charms were never too great anyway, Larka thought.

As she got up, she saw the expanse of London was laid out before her out the window, glowing hazily in the weary white dawn. The towering Muggle skyscrapers were to a distance, and the King's Cross station peeked through at a break in the buildings. The incoming light made her feel extremely exposed, and she searched the room only to find her pajamas in a heap on the floor. She put them on and felt, for a moment, ashamed of the softness of her belly and around her thighs.

Well, she taught herself to think as she inspected the sleeping form of Sirius, the sheets wrapped impossibly around him like ivy clinging to oak, he wasn't in his top-notch Quidditch form either*. His biceps are softer and less defined, and there used to be the most pronounced sex lines on his lower abdomen that she loved—but the skinny-six-pack along his stomach had disappeared, and that was good, that was healthier. She didn't need him to look forever like the glorified Quidditch star in his youth.

Molly said something about cleaning the second floor for the Order, so she walked down the stairs from the fourth floor—tall, mighty stairs they were, linking the impossibly lofty floors. She couldn't remember ever seeing anything this majestic since Hogwarts—and that telly show that introduced the Treasure Houses of England. In fact she could imagine Sirius's old room on the topmost landing, in its prior state of glamour, to look just like the duke's dining room in Chatsworth House, all red and gold, with hexagonal ceiling paintwork**.

The whole place unnerved her; she suspected that it unnerved everybody, even Alastor Moody, which was saying something. She also strongly suspected that the Blacks meant it to be this way.

Of course, that didn't mean she didn't _like_ the place—or rather, felt like she _would_ like it had it been properly taken care of. She found a world in each crack of wood in the house. She knows that Sirius did not like this place, his family's house, but she did, in a macabre sort of way. Her mother's fascination with oldness and heredity must have been passed down to her, she thought. Mother never thought that her baby would one day inherit the wind blowing through The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, she thought with a smile. Once the war was over, she would show mum the place, and let her coo after it.

They only got through the first guest bedroom—a small one with two twin beds that Molly decided would be perfect for Harry and her son—when Sirius tumbled down the stairs with loud, crackling steps.

"Larka! Kreacher snuck those shrunken skulls back _again_!" he whined before he even entered the room. "What are you doing in—oh hullo Molly_._"

"Sirius," Molly gave him a curt nod.

"Why are you hijacking Larka? She's the only person who can walk past that screaming hag to get to Kreacher."

For some reason, Walburga Black was indifferent to Larka's presence inside her house—or at least her portrait was—and that was a much friendlier approach than most others who had set foot in here. Larka suspected that it had to do with her womb—that was, the possibility of bearing a son from Sirius, for Walburga was definitely one of those women who cared about passing down the family blood. If she ever did succeed in making sure the Black lineage did not die with Sirius, Walburga might even acknowledge her with her _name_, think of that!

As it was, Larka made sure that Kreacher never knew about the birth contraception that they used—neither war was a proper time to have a baby, and Larka had to concede to the unusually practical thinking coming from Sirius, so no son was coming for a while. But they had time: time to restart a life and time to create a new one within themselves, time after the fear and the battles, time for peace and love and a small family.

"There are far more important issues than just petty family feuds," Molly disapproved as she tore another doxy from the curtains, "like making room for Harry. He _is_ coming today."

"Of course I _know_ that," Sirius snapped, "but why would he stay _here_?"

"Where else would he stay?

"My old room on the top floor of course, it's even got an old poster of the Falmouth Falcons! Best motto by far, I'll say."

"I assume he'd want to stay with Ron."

"Well stop _assuming_ you know what's best for everybody! Regulus's old room is just across the hall anyway, and it'll upset mum instead of _pleasing_ her by banishing Harry to a second-tier guest bedroom!"

"It _is_ a second-tier guestroom," the portrait of Phineas Nigellus Black*** agreed soulfully.

"_Petty family feuds_, Sirius!" Molly hissed.

"It's _not_ just a family _feud_, nor is it petty! Stop trivializing!"

Larka slipped out quietly to start on the adjacent room.

The sound of Sirius's shouts echoed down the hall and bounced off the polished silver surfaces of serpent doorknobs. Those two could not coexist in a single room for two minutes without getting in a row, and Larka did not want to be caught futilely peacemaking in the middle again. It was one of those houses that bred discord, so let Sirius and Molly bleed it out with their spats. There would be an Order meeting again tonight, and Larka could only stand so many disputes in one day.

The meetings were all ridiculously long talks about strategy, and nobody cared to admit that they had no idea how to fight this war. It wasn't exactly something to be _talked_ over, in any case. She dragged herself to attend every one of them, though, since she was technically in the Order. Although to be fair, the reason why she fought so hard to be in the Order of the Phoenix was not to listen to its members verbally spar with each other. But there was a reason, Larka reminded herself as Molly's voice echoed, each word chasing after Sirius's words with vengeful speed.

Quite frankly, Larka saw this second war not as a repetition of the first, not even a reprise of the Dark Lord, but more like a chance to redeem herself—redeem how much she failed during the first war. She did not even understand the full extent of her failure until this war started, but she was here to make it right, to make Sirius right.

She caught the sight of herself in the old, bronze mirror hanging stably on the wall. It was a Byzantine piece, a relic from the House's older days, but was magicked to reflect smoothly, beautifully, like any mercury-backed modern invention. There were lines that were not found before, and Larka was oddly placated by the slightest whisper of grey at the top of her ears. Her eyes gazed back at her, older and with a subdued fire that was unfamiliar.

The corner of the mirror reflected a Dementor kissing Sirius*****, and Larka turned around with a sigh and murmured _Riddikulus_ and then quickly _Depulso_ to send away the Dementor and Sirius both dancing in Hawaiian grass skirts. Damned Boggarts, she had thought she got rid of all of them already.

Much cleaning to be done.

It was nearly nightfall before Larka even noticed the sun weakening.

Harry would be here soon, she thought, along with the massively over-numbered Advance Guard of escorts. She always thought that Alastor Moody alone could probably take care of a dozen teenagers, but then again, it was Harry Potter and these were trying times. Maybe Remus too then—he had a killer precision with spells.

She liked the boy, really, she did, but she was sure that with Sirius's and Molly's overwhelming affection and welcome, she wouldn't be missed, so she retired upstairs.

She ended up falling asleep in an armchair that was less comfortable than it looked, and it was already dark outside when she gathered herself up to sort out the room for the hippogriff that would be coming as well. Sirius was fond of Buckbeak, whose acquaintance he had made as a dog on the grounds of Hogwarts two years ago, before she and Remus found him. There was some convoluted scheme that saved the poor creature's life at some point, involving illegal magical equipment and other things that Sirius loved, but she couldn't remember more than how animated and beautiful Sirius was when he told her the tale. Well, Buckbeak would go into Walburga's room, she decided, to make use of the other side of the chamber. For some reason, Mr. and Mrs. Black slept in separate rooms, joined by a single, gilt door. Larka tried to not think about the symbolism for the Blacks, or Sirius and her.

Sirius would get on better with a hippogriff than any other Order Member living at the House, she assumed, and probably would like it both to keep an eye on the creature and to piss Walburga off.

She fought back the uncertain fluttering in her stomach that told her to _ask Sirius_ first, but she steeled herself. It was as much as her house as his, she told herself, possibly more because he didn't _want_ the place.

_Sirius, I've moved Buckbeak in_—no, that sounded wrong.

_I set up the room for Buckbeak, so it can be of use to the Order_—no, that was an excuse, absolutely no dodging here.

_Ignore the hippogriff calls and just come to bed_—oh no, that was too provocative, what if Sirius didn't want to? She seriously doubted that he enjoyed himself last night—

Soft steps were beside her, gently raising the layer of dust into the air, dancing like fairies under the chandeliers pouring down candlelight.

"Sirius!" she exclaimed, "Is it over already?"

He quirked an eyebrow at her, "What over? The party's just started."

"Party?" she asked confusedly.

"Welcoming party for Harry, course."

"Ah, spoiling the boy enough for a lifetime, aren't you lot?"

"My lot?" Sirius laughed and swung a bottle from behind his back, pushing it towards her, "You're my lot!"

It had been a long time since she had seen firewhiskey, the amber bottle with its dark liquid. She smiled and took a long swig despite herself. "And suppose I'm too tired from moving _yet again_?"

"Moving?"

"Oh I moved Buckbeak in to the next room—probably large enough for him, you think? A whole half floor? I thought it would be nice to have him nearby, since you like him so much …"

"It would be nice," Sirius agreed with her, plucking the bottle from her precariously loose hold and almost downing a quarter of the liquid.

They stared at each other, the warm summer air buzzing with alcohol now.

Somehow, the idea of living with a hippogriff became incredibly hilarious, and the two of them burst into uncontrollable laughter, and it was not until Larka's stomach hurt from all the laughter and she found herself having slid down on the floor, that they stopped laughing long enough to join the party downstairs.

Sometime during the night, somebody started crying, and somebody soon followed with puking. Sirius and Larka sat unmoved, however, as Molly ran around nursing over the various drunkards. They took in the puke-smelling air like it was a refreshing summer's zephyr.

Another fit of giggles overtook Larka as she felt his fingers stroke the back of her hand. Sirius was still Sirius, and no matter how much the world—and the Place-That-Shan't-Be-Mentioned—changed him. She never had to change him, to make him _right_. He had always been a bit of wrong, but that was part of what she liked, how could she forget that? Larka laughed at how daft she was. She was infinitely cleverer as a girl of seventeen than a woman of thirty-five.

The fingers moved to her back and started tracing her spine, and all of a sudden she needed to breathe through her open mouth. As she felt the tip of his middle finger going down the base of her spine, she couldn't help but let out a small gasp. She glanced at Sirius quickly and found a satisfactory sight in his cheeks blooming and his lips parted as well. The said lips closed in and breathed into her ears as he said, "There are children here, Larka, behave yourself." The slowness and slight hoarseness in his voice made heat pool in her belly.

"Ahem", she cleared her throat out loud, "Heading up to bed now," she announced to nobody in particular, and tapped her foot against Sirius.

"Same here," he grinned wickedly and they both ran up the stairs.

As Larka was slammed against the door, her mouth being thoroughly explored by Sirius's tongue, she briefly wondered if the arctic icecaps were okay from all this heat; she had grown to be quite the environmentalist in her Muggle days.

(Soon there was not much thinking about anything though, including icecaps.)

The sex was _much_ better this time, as they studied each other with a tenderness often reserved for youth. They extoled each other's beauty with their limbs and spoke of their love in a language without words.

**-.-.-.-**

When Larka forced herself to relive the traumatic event of the 18th of June later, trying out the advice of that therapist that she saw only once, she always found herself saying the same thing, muttering grumpily as if the Sirius from her memory could hear her: "Go, just go. You'll die, but when has that ever stopped you."

What in reality had happened was this:

"Sirius," Larka pleaded, not saying how dangerous and reckless it was, because those words defined Sirius Altair Deneb Black, but instead, "This is not the time for heroism, not the time to be twenty again, not the time to try to be as good a man as James was!"

He growled wildly, "I won't sit back in that Merlin-blasted hellhole of a house, and do nothing!"

She clutched onto his arm like a drowning man to a plank of wood, "Somebody has to—"

"Bloody damn, Larka, can't you see?" he tried waving his arms around and found himself bogged down by Larka, "This is my battle to win! Can't you feel it?"

"But if you fail—"

"I won't fail; I will sweep in as gloriously as I did all those times before—don't you see, Larka," _he_ was pleading now, for if indeed he needed anybody's approval and understanding, it was hers, "Don't you see my sweet, sweet skylark, that this is _mine_?"

"But if you fail—" she tried to get in her thought once more.

"There are some things worse than failure," he hissed out, "and I have seen them all!"

Larka couldn't argue with that. Nobody knew how this man had stayed twelve years in a place worse than any hell anybody could imagine, and came out sane and with memory of every single day that passed there. Nobody questioned it.

It was only natural then, that she concedes with, "Then I'm coming with you!"

"What? But somebody has to—"

"I'll call Twiggy—my house elf—she can stand guard, keep your house from shrieking. Maybe Kreacher will fall in love with her and make a happy elf family."

He couldn't help but snort. They knew each other too well to fight, for each knew the other's weaknesses and exactly how to exploit them. He gave a last struggle though: "You're piss poor at combat, you know it."

"Well I don't care," Larka argued hotly, "I'm coming with you! And if I die, you have that on your head for the rest of your long, bloody lonely life!"

That bizarrely made Sirius break out into a wide, doggish grin, as he spun her into his arms and said, "My princess, we shall head into the war of our kingdoms, and live to tell the tale!"

Larka almost forgot about the war and indeed fighting at all, in the heady giddiness of his promise, as he Apparated the both of them with a bang.

(Sirius promised a lot of things in his short life. Most of them did not pay out.)

* * *

* Sirius A. D. Black would like to correct that, despite confinement and malnutrition, he had done the impossible—that was, not just the impossible escape from Azkaban, unmatched in the past and to be peerless in the future, but also he recovered a six-pack and lean, sinewy thighs within a year. Even his teeth were not that bad. Larka Roxburgh would like to correct _his_ statements, but she was the bigger person so she refused to comment.

** In preparation for the coming of Larka, Sirius had moved in four days earlier, nominally to clean up his old room. Larka understood that coming back was like ripping a plaster off—speed and pain were good—but she had much more to take care of, because once again, she had to fork up her entire life and pack it away inside an expandable suitcase. It was easy to move two years' worth of freedom, but hard to remove four years and marriage and countless years of university life. Sirius understood that his room still had those naff posters of biker birds with their asses hanging out of hot pants.

*** Phineas Nigellus Black would not say that he quite approved of his great-great-great-grandson's company, nor would he say that he disapproved. Phineas did not live so long (for a Black, anyway, as they had abnormally short lifespans—the Higher Up envied the greatness on earth, it would seem) without his political sensitivities. So he chatted with Walburga—who was actually rather gossipy when one got her alone in the House, and quite pining after a grandson—but was appropriately amicable to these lesser younglings. He thought that he would even smile to this Potter kid—he remembered the Potters from his days, bit gauche, the bunch, but good blood.

**** The first few days, as one could imagine, were hard on Larka. She saw Dementors giving Sirius the Kiss at every corner, all the buggered boggarts coming out and gleefully mobbing her. It made Molly's life rather easy, banishing the whole herd (flock? Pride? Murder?) of boggarts, but Larka was reduced to hysterical tears for a good half hour. It took quite some effort for Larka to think of a riposte for the boggarts, and in the end she drew on one of the more bizarre spells that backfired and resulted in Sirius uncontrollably dancing in a grass skirt whenever a rhythm was struck in his hearing range. That was the trial run, of course, but the effect of the actual prank did not overcome the sight of Sirius Altair Deneb Black shaking his hips and arms. True memory gave a stronger Patronus anyhow, even if the dog that came out of her wand tended to join in on the dancing.

* * *

Author's Note: So yet again things turned bad with a WHAM.

And the chapter's set up as 'first day in the House / a full day in the House / last day in the House', don't know if anybody picked that up...

I may or may not have painted Mrs. Black (ahh! bad pun alert!) as too nice, but I always thought that the impression of her being completely evil was too extreme. Child abusers have recurring regret towards the abused, so I took artistic liberties with canon.

For anybody interested, the Falmouth Falcon's motto is: 'Let us win, but if we cannot win, let us break a few heads.' Sirius would definitely appreciate that. Also, _foul_mouth? Of course that would be his favorite team.


	33. The Passage of Grief

**Chapter 32**

**The Passage of Grief**

**_Stage 1 – Denial*_**

She expected that at any minute, she would swing around and there he would be, standing with long black hair and ragged breath, grinning rakishly and apologizing for worrying her in the slightest. He hadn't come back yet, but any minute now.

They had tried to do a funeral for him, but she was quick to point out the absurdity of that. That wouldn't fool the Death Eaters, and besides, Sirius wasn't important enough in this war to warrant such elaborate deceit. Maybe if it was Harry, they would. There was no point in trying to deceive the world that Sirius was, you know.

Any. Minute. _Now_.

It took a good four months before she realized that the minute wasn't coming. In the end, that realization came when she found out that she was not meant to be a romantic heroine.

It would be forgiven, nay, _expected_ of a proper one to lose sight of all else when heartbroken, so she should have been blind to the enhanced clumsiness of her father. It wasn't even pronounced, just an extra second when grabbing the salt shaker, and a few more bruises grazing the edges of furniture for a man who had been graceful all his life. Larka was ashamed to say, however, that she was not engulfed by grief enough to miss the wrongness that shrouded Mr. Roxburgh. It took several more days for Larka and her mother to convince the old man to overcome his irrational dislike of the hospital and quicken appointment with St. Mungo. The problem, it turned out, was quite less severe than she had feared, for the quick trip there resulted in a simple diagnosis of cataract, not a degenerative disorder like Parkinson's. Of course, Mrs. Roxburgh had no idea who this Parkinson was, and why Larka was crying over him, but Mrs. Roxburgh was caught up in the relief for her husband that she didn't remember to question Larka about it later on. It was a relatively safe and easy operation, the clearing of the clouded lens-it was one of those rare surgeries that the magical community shared with the Muggles (with a few swishes for levitation and cleaning of equipment, of course) so Larka didn't even have to choose between her two ways of thinking.

The problem wasn't with her father-but those fearful six days, when the dark clouds of potential tragedy hung over her head like the sword of Damocles, helped her surgically remove her own delusions. She finally learned to deal with the aftermaths of Sirius's (second) death, and snapped out of her denial.

It always took somebody else's tragedy for her to move on.

It wasn't exactly schadenfreude, but it was something, wasn't it? Sirius's childhood abuse helped her get over herself; Novia's heartbreak helped her learn to strive for what she wanted; Sirius's capture and wrongful imprisonment helped her make a career out of planetary placement; Nott's declining mental stability helped her regain her old lover; Kelso's death helped her break away from a life that stifled her; and finally it took her own father's looming health concerns to let her move on to the next stage of grief.

(If there was a hell, she definitely had a place there. She just hoped that her neighbor wasn't too embittered.)

* * *

**_Stage 2 – Anger_**

On her mother's advice (and by advice, Larka meant a subtle but not nearly subtle enough prod every other hour) to see a therapist, Larka called up a Doctor Crawley** who was known for tremendous discretion and therefore was whispered about greatly among the purebloods. Larka stopped seeing the Doctor because upon being told to lie back and relax on the plush, magenta couch and imagine a vacation, she immediately realized that if a trip to the Highlands was what he prescribed, there was no point.

It was a waste of time. Everything was a fucking waste of time. She got up angrily from the couch and left without a word. (She did call a few days later to apologize, but one _had_ to, after slamming the door and not paying the bill.)

All the way back home, Larka fumed: the _nerve_ of that man, to _die_ on her.

* * *

**_Stage 3 – Bargaining_**

Well, maybe he did die, if one wanted to get wishy-washy with the technical terms. But that didn't mean he was _dead_. Nobody knew what the Veil was all about, so how could a simple death certificate convince her of anything? It was called the Department of Mysteries, but a person falling to their death wasn't very mysterious, was it? There was nothing graceful or mysterious about it, and Sirius wouldn't have gone like that.

She was sure that Sirius Black of all people could do something about the whole Veil thing. The man was a genius. If he hadn't been sent to Azkaban, he would have either killed off all the evildoers in the world already, or have done something dramatic—like when what's-her-name invented the Floo Network.

She was not asking for much, really, for she was sure he would enjoy life better here. _Please. _He did not have to plan anything dramatic, even though he always had a flair for theatrics; _please come back_; she would be satisfied with a quiet return, maybe a knock on the door when she was having tea with her parents down in their dining room.

(She would make some joke here, because Sirius was fond of jokes, and maybe that would help—but she really couldn't think of anything.)

She wouldn't even be angry at him—she would promise to _never_ be angry at him. He could eat all the greasy, awful food that he wanted; he could break routine and sleep on whichever side struck his fancy and she would let him; he could drag up as mud as he wanted from running outside over their carpeting; he could do anything. Just as long as he came back to her. _Please, _she begged without a shred of dignity, _just this one thing, _she would only ask him this one, small thing, that surely he would do for her?

_Please don't be dead._

* * *

**_Stage 4 – Depression_**

"Coming," Mabel promised, setting aside the television remote control with a scowl and pursing her lips in annoyance at the disruption to _Father Ted_ on Channel 4. She had been told on many occasions—and not all of them friendly—that she was a complete prat when anybody stopped her from watching her telly programs.

"Larka?" but at the door Mabel was surprised by the sight of Larka's face, drained of all color.

"I think I want to die," Larka croaked out before breaking into ungraceful, hysterical tears.

"Oh sweetheart, come in," Mabel moved aside and closed the door behind her once Larka cried in the comfort of her living room. The telly was a bit loud for Pan taking a nappy in the back, but Larka drowned the laugh tracks out admirably.

"I'm sorry to barge in like this, I can't cry to Remus, because it's not _fair_, neither of us should be comforting the other, he has as much a right to mourn as I do—" (Larka was a thoughtful person—Remus had enough trouble on his own without her tears, survivor's guilt and all. The holiday season was tough on those who remained to grieve.)

Mabel, bless her heart, didn't ask who this Remus was.

"—Good _god_, they were all brilliant and beautiful and how could it all come down to this?"

"_What_," Mabel asked, "What happened?"

"He, he _died_!"

"Who died?"

"Si—It's Pad," Larka caught herself, even in the state she was in. Later, much later, she would retell this story with great emphasis on her control over herself.

"Pad? He _died_?" Mabel cried out, "Jesus, _how_?"

"He, he died in battle, glorious as always, but always playing the _blasted _hero."

"He wasn't just a distant relative, was he," it was a question but Mabel made it out to be a statement.

"Well, we're probably related—not in any important way, but a lot of the Families are—" she couldn't finish that digressing thought, because another fit of sobs shook her.

Mabel gave her a tight smile, but her eyes were soft.

"I know him from a long time ago," Larka made out slowly, in between wails and gasping for air, "I've known him from a long time ago."

It took a while, but eventually Larka tired out, and her choked wailing reduced to a more manageable—although no less undignified—crying. The pieces of sentences that Mabel was able to capture told her that Larka and Pad met in school, and of course fell in love. Love became a tragedy when Pad joined some army or another—Mabel couldn't remember the last war they fought, the Gulf War? Bosnian War? Neither had much to do with the United Kingdom. No wonder Larka married her brother; a soldier's sweetheart couldn't find a further opposite than the steady, mathematical Castor.

"…He was the light of life itself."

"There, there," Mabel continued soothingly.

"We were good as married," Larka said, pained and wistful.

It was strange, having an ex-sister-in-law crying in one's arms over the death of another man, but Larka had always been Mabel's favorite.

"Why must my life repeat itself so miserably? Both the wars might as well just blend into one another to form a huge one for all I care—begins with a funeral of somebody too good to die, and ending by whisking _him_ away from me."

Mabel could make neither heads nor tails of it, so she obligingly patted Larka. The woman was still cold to touch, did she just run out without a coat? Love made such teenagers out of everyone. Mabel glanced at the screen: the show didn't have subtitles, but it was a rerun of the season before the Christmas Special so she already knew that Ted and Dougal would escape to Rugged Island. _She_ would like to escape to the fictional Rugged Island to smoke, drink, and rollerblade.

Just as Ted was declaring that it was a dump, the front door flapped open again. Mabel was so sure that she was clear minded enough to set the lock.

A broad-shoulder black man burst in: tall but not intimidating, bald but with a smoothly egg-shaped skull, and with a fashionable gold hoop through his ear. She thought about indignantly demanding what business he had, but she would be lying if she said he wasn't a welcome surprise.

Instead, Mabel cleared her throat and inquired, "And you are?"

"Larka," he ignored Mabel's sidelong look and gasped out, "I saw him, I _saw_ him." His looks were just fine, but his voice was what did Mabel in—deep and rich and oscillating through her entire body.

Larka peered up at him with glazed, puffy eyes that spoke of no comprehension. (Mabel couldn't believe that the man overlooked _her _on account of Larka; Larka wasn't a gorgeous woman to begin with, and Mabel was certain that she had been crying nonstop for at least three weeks. No woman would wear that lumpy cable knit sweater without three weeks of crying.)

"_Him_!" he emphasized, and came closer, round eyes growing rounder. "I was in North Yorkshire for some business with the Ministry, and I _saw him_."

"P-Pad?" Larka asked incredulously.

Kingsley immediately picked up, "Yes, _Pad_. Impossible, I know, but with my very own eyes! I had not put any thought into the rumors until now."

"You sure Pad's not American?" Mabel quibbled helpfully, "Or at least partly Irish? No proper Englishman would ever _dream_ of appearing on a _moor_."

Although normally Larka would have giggled at this, neither she nor Kingsley Shacklebolt was in a mood for witty zingers. "What do you mean you _saw_ him?" she demanded.

"He was _there_," his voice was like a baritone horn, "Walking along the road all of a sudden. Came by and with an actual flower, you know, a material one, gave me it like I should know what it's about, and then walked away and vanished, _without a sound_. Here," he dug into his overcoat pocket, "I have the flower right here."

It would be a cruel joke to play on Larka like this, but it couldn't be anything but a joke, Mabel thought irritably. She recognized the star-shaped flower that Larka reached out for though, Larka had planted a whole flowerbed with them around her—Castor's house. Borage roses, she called them.

"What do you make of it?" Larka asked quietly.

"Not Nick or the Fat Friar," he gave a ridiculous answer, "If you're thinking about that. I'm positive that I've never seen anything like it!" Mabel wondered how in the world they would know a person who could be called the Fat Friar, but there was a look of dawning comprehension on Larka's face.

"Where did it happen?"

"Yorkshire heather moorland, I could show you exactly where if you would like, it's hard to distinguish one part of the moorland from another."

"Do you think," Larka whispered out hoarsely with a heartbreaking timidity, "That he'd still _be_ there?"

"I doubt it, I doubled checked the place. _Plotted_ it too, asked _Remus_ to plot it, actually, and you know how good he is with these things…" At her crestfallen look, he added, "Other people have been talking too, you know. Other sightings."

"What other people, _who_?" Of course Kingsley would only come to her if there was indeed some indubitable evidence, a shred of something unexplainable.

"Sturgis said something about it, as did Hagrid last week—"

"Thanks!" Larka flew out the door—metaphorically speaking, of course. She ran very swiftly to the door and _then_ she flew when nobody could see her.

Kingsley stood and faintly worried about handing out false hope.

Left alone with the stranger, Mabel made the best out of the situation: "So," she purred out, "The ministry, you said?"

"Yes, I hold a minor position with the British Parliament," Kingsley lied charmingly, "I call it reporting to M***."

They both chuckled, although for different reasons.

* * *

**_Stage 5 – Acceptance_**

_Never_.

* * *

* It was a Muggle invention, this Five Stages of Grief, by a woman named Kübler-Ross. They were to be in no specific sequence, but they were listed in such an order, and Larka had always wanted to do things the right way.

** The good Doctor Crawley with the ambiguous gender was a well-known figure among the upper class of the wizardkind. The Doctor rose to fame after it was revealed that he was singlehandedly accountable for the reappearance of Druella Rosier into society after the catastrophe of her debutant ball. Her family had hoped to find nothing more but a non-picky foreigner for her to marry, but Doctor Crawley patched up Druella's broken psyche and shattered heart with surgical precision. She, as the world knew, married Cygnus Black III, a heavenly and blessed match, even if Cygnus was the one who broke her to begin with (the Rosiers never harbored any animosity towards Cygnus anyway).

*** Kingsley Shacklebolt liked making jokes in this manner. His grasp of British pop culture was one of the chief reasons that he blended in so well with the Muggles. Whenever he was unsure of anything, he just referenced either Ian Lancaster Fleming or Sir Arthur Ignatius Conan Doyle. In fact, the only cocktail that he was known to order was the Vesper, and whenever he asked for a light he said it was only because Sherlock Holmes himself took up the course of tobacco poisoning despite the condemnation of Doctor John Hamish Watson. The Order laughed at him, but it did wonders for picking up Muggle women. Also strangely his career, for later he was promoted to the Minster based at least partially on his ability to deal with Muggles.

* * *

Author's Note: I couldn't resist, I just couldn't! Kingsley as James Bond meets Sherlock!

Sadly, that is the last of Mabel. I really loved writing her. And wasn't this so much more uplifting than you thought it would be?


	34. The Call to Adventure

**Chapter 33**

**The Call to Adventure**

"So you saw him _last month_? Why didn't you say something?" Larka asked the large, towering half-giant who was nervously toying with his hands before her, like a schoolboy before the headmaster.

"Blimey, Larka, I thought, I thought that maybe I saw wrong, ye know, or the butterbeer 'ad gone to me 'ead or somethin'."

"Even three year olds don't get drunk off of butterbeer*, Hagrid," Larka softened her voice but not her words.

"I talked to ol' Doc—Elphias Doge, tha' is—and 'e said, well, we thought tha' we shouldn't bother ye with it until, ye know…Dumbledore said somethin' 'bout it maybe…"

Apparently rumors had been hanging around the Order like flies on a pastoral summer's eve. Only nobody said anything to her because, well, he was _dead_. They were right; there was no conceivable point in bringing up illusions to a grieving lover. "Where did you see him?" she asked instead.

"South Yorkshire, part of tha' park, the Mountain, em, no, Peak…"

"Peak District National Park?" she frowned at that.

"Right, 'hat one! Did I say somethin' wrong?" He asked worriedly.

"No, no, that's very helpful, thank you, Hagrid," she tried to pacify him, goodness he was as anxious as she had been in her school years.

He beamed at her appreciation, "No problem at all, lass, glad to be of help. Sorry 'bout 'im by the way."

She smiled weakly at him, "Thank you, really, and please don't worry about this."

"Ye take care of yerself, alright? Don't do anythin' 'e would've done."

She awarded him with a soft chuckle and thought about all the madness that Sirius brought her into fondly. "I'll try," she sagely avoided promising him as she took her leave.

_There were many reported sightings of a gypsy man. He appeared when men retired to rest and one traveled alone, crossing and crossing again the strips of starlit greenery. He was always the same—moon-bleached skin, dark darting eyes, and occasionally passing the traveler a flower. He sometimes gave out a spotted sunflower sprouting summer's smock, others a dark dahlia drenched in dawn's dew, but certainly not just any flower plucked from a shy steppe nearby, but rather growing in some fanciful flowerbed from a fort. He was everywhere, yet nowhere to be found. Outside some lonesome pub, ranging the hind of a hill, beyond some door when opened, or around a mossy mill—nobody ever saw of his coming or going: if he was there, he was there already, and the next moment he was not._

Larka rolled out the map of the United Kingdom, the largest and most detailed she could find at Waterstones in Piccadilly, the largest bookstore in Europe. There was a zigzagging line drawn with colored markers on the map that spilled over the table for four at Le Mercury. There weren't many diners at four in the afternoon, so they let her take the large table by the corner window and removed the tabletop candle so that she could pour over her map with a four quid basket of fried calamari.

This had been one of Sirius's favorite spots nearby the Black House. She had to admit that she was being irrational, not being able to visit the Black House or Hogwarts because they reminded her too much of him, but coming to every favored eatery precisely because they reminded her of him. She could neither bear too much nor too little of such reminders, and the distinction was rather arbitrary. A sadistic instinct to preserve the wound fresh but not fatal.

She refocused on the vastness of the land before her. Sturgis Podmore had been the first, in the Brecon Beacons range running the South of Wales. Then by one of the rock foldings along the Pembrokeshire coast in West Wales. Hagrid chanced an encounter at Peak District, at the border of Derbyshire and Yorkshire. The apparition (not Sirius, not Sirius yet) then was seen north of the region to Snowdonia, much further west. Kingsley was the most recent, in one of the nondescript plains in North York Moors, not far out enough to catch a sight of the North Sea.

It didn't make any sense, any of it, Larka sighed.

She had tried all those places, and had absolutely no luck in recreating an encounter. It seemed as if the apparition was generally heading north, so Larka had wandered about Northumberland National Park, but the park covered almost a quarter of the county and there was no way for her to be at every corner at all times. She even entertained herself with the thought of historic symbolism of the Hadrian's Wall, but that undertaking only provided her with a deeper dislike of tourist attractions as one rampant child tore her dress. The footpath following the wall was closed until the summer months, but that didn't stop most of the site-seers. The wall itself was rather uninspiring, a short, drab clutter of stones, smelling most of artificial weed-killers to keep the biological weathering to a minimum. She saw nothing but an endless terrain of grass, divided by the wall—no apparition with a familiar face, no Roman legionary defending against the Vikings, and in short, nothing.

Perhaps she would venture into her ancestral Scotland and try Loch Lomond or Cairngorms, because it was quite clear that the encounters were occurring in national parks. That mutual characteristic did not escape Larka, although its significance did. Perhaps it was an unknown shape-shifting non-being, like the boggart, but for some reason favored the appearance of Sirius Black. At best it was his ghost, and at worst it was some twisted joke for sick mind out there.

The weather was promised to be fine tomorrow, and she shall march then, she thought.

Her musing was disrupted when a quick succession of raps against the window brought her attention to the figure hovering over her outside.

Novia. Ah, lovely, she convinced herself. _Good afternoon_, she beckoned with her hand, then as an afterthought, _come in_.

Novia grinned at her and came in immediately, parked herself in the seat across from Larka without a second thought about it. "Lovely place, I like the bright blue windowsill against the buttercup walls. What's that you got there?"

"Map of the UK," she didn't want to divulge too much information to Novia, not when her closest convergence with tragedy was the death of Kelso.

Novia rolled her eyes, "Of _course_ it's a map of the UK. I meant why do you have the biggest map I've ever seen in my life?"

"I'm looking at which National Park I want to go see."

"I see," Novia didn't, but thought she did as she turned her head to read the tiny lettering underneath the colored dots, "These the points of interest?"

"No, been to those," Larka replied ruefully.

Novia raised her left eyebrow, "Well you've been busy. I advise against the Broads, in any case."

"Okay," Larka said. The Broads were even south of Snowdonia, so not of interest. Then, because it was polite to inquire about these things, she continued, "Why?"

"Chester and I just came back from Norfolk Broads," it was obvious from her tone that this would be a long story about expectations not met, "And let me tell you, mutton mills? Not interesting, not even remotely interesting for a single second, and I don't _care_ if it's a bloody historic drainage windpump! The best part of the weeklong trip was yachting on the broads, but the small ponds are too shallow and the Breydon was too tidal—you'd think we had come up with some sort of charm against _tides_, it's not like they were a _modern_ phenomenon by any means. We did sail for a bit once we reached River Waverley—or was it River Yarn*? One of those. But Sully wouldn't shut _up_ about this girl in Hufflepuff with him for the sake of everything holy! Tried to write these _horrid_ sonnets about how her hair was like the river water, and I had to suffer through every word, otherwise he called me a bad mother."

Larka made suitable noises of encouragement and sympathy at the correct times. Sullivan was her son, Larka remembered, who began Hogwarts two years ago. He had been a quiet kid until school, but his younger sister was still a very well-mannered girl (even if all children her age tend to be rather good-natured).

She momentarily wondered if age and marriage made chatterboxes out of all women, and herself an anomaly.

"Oh! The most exciting part was when we landed at the Halvergate Marshes, you know to see those blasted mills, and you wouldn't _believe_ what we saw!" Novia paused for dramatic effect, and her eyes glinted with the craving to tell.

"What did you see?" Larka asked, a strange sort of feeling lifting her head. She had a bizarrely prophetic idea…

"We saw _Sirius Black_," Novia hissed the name out in a whisper, "You know, that guy that we both dated back in school. Apparently he was wrongly imprisoned, can you imagine that!"

Apparently, Larka thought wryly, he was. She was very glad that she never told Novia of her reprising involvement with him, as she would have lost the one friend that she was able to talk to without seeing a clear pity in their eyes.

"He just _appeared_ out of nowhere, looking fine and dashing if I might say," Novia winked at her, "And handed me a double rose! And then vanished! Chester had a good few thoughts to share on that, but it was worth it, getting a rose at my age."

Of course. Larka picked up a marker and colored Norfolk in the East of England on her map.

"Why are you dotting the Broads?"

"You were there, from your description there's nothing more for me to get out of it," Larka replied smoothly, a faint buzzing in the back of her head.

Novia seemed a little put out by her lack of astonishment, but soon recovered her good spirits, "Anyway, I'm glad to be back again. But that did give me the idea, I want to go see the double rose garden."

"The double rose garden? Wellington's garden of Josephine's roses?" Larka asked.

"What other garden is famous for double roses? I was actually on my way to the Apsley House. Might as well get all the heritage sites in a row, eh?"

The buzzing flourished into a thought: it was so lucidly spread in front of her. The apparition was circling London—these were all the National Parks closest to London! She was on the wrong track. Not Northumberland, but South Downs or New Forest in Hampshire. She hoped that the southeast would be sunny and nice tomorrow as well.

"You want to come?" Novia's voice broke her out of her giddy plotting.

"To Apsley?"

"Yeah, it'll be fun!"

"Sure," she agreed. It wasn't too far and the thought of going back to the same museum that provoked her to finally stop wasting away after the first death—well, she found the thought funny, in the way that one laughed about one's misfortunes. "I'm done here anyway."

So they made their way to the Wellington place, and Larka discovered that the same orange lipstick woman sold tickets. Larka recognized her because of the orange flower in her hair, no longer plastic because of her fleeting lapse into magic.

The woman beamed when the last customer turned away and showed Larka and Novia. "Ah, Miss Josephine!" she exclaimed happily, "Back again after so long?"

Larka greatly surprised at being remembered, and at once very happy because of it, and very embarrassed because Novia quirked her left eyebrow at her again. "Yes," she said quickly, blushing no doubt, "Two tickets for the House, please. One for Novia Brooks."

The woman blushed too, noticing Larka's embarrassment, "Of course, of course, I'm sorry, I was just glad, because, well, it was a good day when you visited, because that's when I went on the first date with the hubby. He complimented my flower, you see."

She was indeed the anomaly, Larka concluded about herself, fighting against the inevitability of turning into a chatterbox. But then again, she was happy that her magic was a bit of a matchmaker, although no doubt the man would have complimented her dress or her shoes, or something else. "I'm glad it was a good day for you," she said genuinely.

"Here you are," the woman passed two concession tickets to them, "Fourteen and eighty, please."

"Oh," Larka was on a roll of being surprised today, "Thank you, thanks." The woman had saved her eighty pence again, a favor for which she did nothing to earn.

The woman just smiled brightly at her.

"You know I'm Fawley now," Novia teased.

"If I can be Josephine, you can be Brooks again," Larka replied, waving her ticket.

It was obvious that Novia caught sight of the last name printed on her ticket—Josephine _Black_—because she jerked her head away and hastily turned it back. Great, Larka thought, she ruined the last person she could turn to without the bleeding, torrential pity. Pity meant there was no possibility anymore, and then what became of her quest to find him?

They walked into the House in silence.

They traveled through the halls quickly, because Novia did not have any enduring curiosity of historic sites, nor did she harbor romantics about dead dukes, even if it was the grand hero Duke Wellington. Larka accompanied Novia at the speed Novia chose without complaint, until they arrived at the door of the Duke's own bedroom. Stricken with momentary fancy, Larka simply said, "I want to stay here for a bit longer, you go on without me," when Novia wanted to leave for the next room.

Larka walked to the end of the room, threw open the window, and attempted to admire the dead tangle of rose bushes right under her nose. Come summer, they would give birth to the most extraordinary double roses in the world, she knew, but in their current state they just looked sad.

All of a sudden, a bud sprouted on the dried, browned branch, quickly evolving into a full double rose before her eyes. Larka blinked, her eyes hurting a little, and in that blink at least a dozen buds sprouted and were on their way to become full blooms themselves.

She staggered back, a wave of lightheadedness sweeping her off balance, making her crash into the ropes that marked the bed off limits. The mattress was lumpy under her, in contrast to how sumptuous it had looked. For a moment she couldn't find her hands or feet as old magic hit her hard. She scrambled to sit upright, for there was Sirius before her.

Her own eyes betrayed her and the man with the tousled black hair and pale aristocratic skin appeared, eyes bright like they were painted and teeth flashing like a pearl necklace that he lovingly bit along her neck. He was more beautiful than the summer stars that he was named after. His fingers, cool and vapory, reached out to her, filling the air with sweet-smelling magic. His voice too, was sweet and long-awaited to her ears.

_"When we were from the battle come  
That from my place I fell,  
The Queene of Faeries she caught me,  
In yon green hills do dwell."_

"What?" Larka could only make out, not a single, coherent thought forming in the hurricane of her mind. Sirius was talking in a _ballad_? Despite being habitually poetic with his prose, Sirius was never a fan of poetry itself because he was never a master of it. All this rhyming made Larka feel fifteen and timid, as she was when he spoke in a sonnet (a bad one, too).

He looked at her with misty eyes that made him look faerie-born and older than the house itself.

Focus, she needed to focus. "Okay, alright," she pinched the gap between her eyebrows sharply, "Alright, go on."

_"Pleasant be the faerie lay,  
But an eerie tale tell,  
At the end of Hallowday,  
We pay a tithe to hell."_

"Yes, I got the whole 'I must save your' part pretty well, just tell me where in the blooming world you _are_!"

And then, like all good apparitions in a fairy tale, he disappeared.

"Oh _fiddlesticks_," Larka groused.

* * *

* Larka Roxburgh was irresponsibly using the literary technique of hyperbole when telling Rubeus Hagrid that a three year old would not be able to get drunk off of butterbeer. She also did not express clearly enough that she was not serious—she had seemed nothing _but_ serious during that exchange—so it was not poor Hagrid's fault. Madame Olympe Maxime did not see it that way, unfortunately, when she returned to the hut and found her wee baby Seamus loudly belching to an Irish tune. That would not have been out of character, actually, had not the belching been heavily alcoholic-smelling. Hagrid had the misfortune of leaving his barrel of butterbeer trickling, and the wee baby Seamus had found the trickling quite delicious and Hagrid had found the sight utterly adorable. So adorable, in fact, that he poured out a quart from the barrel and fed the wee baby Seamus. Madam Maxime was positively outraged. So although she had come in the hopes of rekindling some of that mutual attraction they felt back during the Second War, having now divorced that despicable French half-giant, she left in a flurry of righteous anger. Hagrid later owled to explain how butterbeer was harmless to three-year-olds and further proved to Madam Maxime that he was below her sophistication. However, as a wise woman had remarked last chapter, love made teenagers out of all, and so later this farce turned into a romantic comedy, as the large-boned Madam fell folly to passion and disregarded the primitive nature of huts.

** It would be necessary to point out, for the overall accuracy of this tale, that it was the River Waveney and the River Yare that merged into the Breydon Broad. Novia Fawley née Brooks was too determined to dislike her Valentine's trip—who brought their _children_ to a Valentine's cruise anyway? Men; always such a lack of romantic common sense!—so she decided that she would not remember the names to these bodies of water. She and her husband Chester Fawley were sailing on the River Yare before reaching the Marshes seeing—well, to avoid spoilers, the overall accuracy must be compromised so as of now—the apparition of Sirius Altair Deneb Black.

* * *

Author's Note: Sirius does not make anybody's life easy, does he? Also Hagrid really deserves a little romantic comedy.

And Novia honestly thinks of Sirius as 'the guy that they both dated back in school', as if she was just as important to Sirius as Larka was. It's at once telling, egocentric, and humanizing.

So begins our trippy trip into the magical faerie world!


	35. Crossing of the First Threshold

**Chapter 34**

**Crossing of the First Threshold**

Larka was no wiser now than when she departed Aspley House. She had, in the past two weeks, sought out many prominent figures in hopes of understanding more about the two stanzas that Sirius told her. Madam Pince had regrettably informed Larka that her vast knowledge of the Hogwarts library did not extend to poetry, although Larka was free to look about—they had a small selection of Yeats, and also Shelley, the two most well-known magical poets. Professor Binns started a long lecture on the historic importance of the All Hallows' Eve* and did not notice Larka slipping away after two hours. Kingsley then pulled some strings, and she also gained access to the director of the British Museum. Robert was very nice and obliging (and Larka was sure it wasn't just because the Museum had a magical artifacts contract with the Ministry), but again he said that he could not bring to mind anything. He introduced the academic rector of the University of Bologna, oldest in the Western world, as well, but even Professor Ivano Dionigi did not know where this ballad came from.

In despair, she went back home to clean her room. Mrs. Roxburgh had volunteered to help her settle everything, but Larka did not trust her mother with interior decoration of her old bedroom.

She was a bit of a failure wasn't she, moving back with her parents at her age, without a job and anything to show for the last two decades of her life beyond a few flimsy pieces of graduation certificates. Nobody blamed her, but she would have preferred if they yelled at her.

There was just another box of books downstairs. Larka stood to stretch her back—she wasn't getting any younger.

When she descended the stairs for the seventh time that day, she found her father flipping through a stack of books that he removed from the box.

"Larka dear, I had no idea you had an interest in our Scottish heritage!" he said in a pleased tenor.

Larka looked at Mr. Roxburgh in confusion for a second before she realized that in his hands he held her copy of _Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border_. Remus had sent her his old copy as part of the reply when she finally sent him a letter after years of seclusion. The ballads were actually not that entertaining, most of the folklore tales having the same bone structure, but they had sentimental value—she had often seen that book lying around when she first got together with Sirius. What a funny thing, sentiment, to make her peel off her recluse act even when she knew that he had intended for it to lead her to do exactly that. It was a subtle manipulation, but Remus had always been a master of that.

"Remus sent me it," Larka replied. Mr. Roxburgh's lines deepened on his forehead as he tried to recall this name but the voice of Mrs. Roxburgh pierced through the kitchen door, "Ah, that wonderful boy! Bit of a recluse himself, though—didn't he teach at Hogwarts the year before you? Some sort of scandal at the end of the year made him resign, but I don't believe a word of those malignant rumors. Wonderful boy," she reiterated.

Mrs. Roxburgh had an elephant's memory when it came to people her baby girl interacted with. That and a very active tongue.

"That's him," Larka confirmed, and let out how those malignant rumors of him being a werewolf were quite true.

"One mustn't take rumors seriously, don't you agree dear," Mrs. Roxburgh came out with a tray of tea and asked for her husband's accession, "_I_ never do."

"Hmm," Mr. Roxburgh delicately hummed in what Mrs. Roxburgh assumed to be an affirmative tone.

"I went through a phase of border ballads," Larka said before her mother could get into gossiping about Remus's—and naturally subsequent, hers—love life. Or lack of.

"Ah, how the ancient spirit passes on," Mr. Roxburgh took a last puff through his pipe before Mrs. Roxburgh snatched it away. "Then would I never tire, Janet," he read from the open book, "In faerie land to dwell, / But aye, at every seven years, / They pay the tithe to hell."

_Tithe to hell_. Larka blinked. That was essentially the lyrical riddle that Sirius said. Not word for word, but these folklores had more variation than there were languages in the world. "Is that," she squawked out, "From the book?"

"Any self-respecting book about border ballads," Mr. Roxburgh answered with uncharacteristic smugness, "Would have the song of our ancestors."

"Our ancestors?"

"Of course, the ballad of Tam Lin is about the beginning of the Roxburgh line."

"Roxburgh line," she repeated weakly, unable to do anything but echo her father's words in a state of complete shock.

"Have you never thought about why you get an allowance of a thousand pounds? The Roxburgh Castle is all ruins now, of course, but we still get our tithe. Your mother insists that you get part of it."

"I thought we rented out our cabin in Melrose."

"No," Mr. Roxburgh chuckled as if finding her naivety very endearing, "We took the cabin in Melrose because your mother and Jane—David's wife—couldn't stay within fifty meters without starting a row."

"It's hardly my fault," Mrs. Roxburgh defended herself, "Good riddance! Even David can't—they got _divorced_ six years ago. She always had such _airs_, as if she really _was_ the Baroness of Roxburgh!"

"Who are Jane and David?" Larka asked bewilderedly.

"Remember the nice man and his wife who came to your second birthday party? We have a lovely photo of all us."

"You peed on the wife's dress," Mrs. Roxburgh added helpfully, "Even then you were always mummy's little girl."

Larka didn't know if she should cry or laugh.

"Anyway, David Innes-Ker is the nominal Baron of Roxburgh," Mr. Roxburgh explained, "And they have that silly Sword of Honour, but they're still _Innes-Ker_ folk. Your dad's the only line of the Roxburgh clan, and one day you will be passed the hall of our forefathers."

"Hall of forefathers?"

"Roxburgh Castle, dearie. They call it _Floors _Castle now, what an ugly name!" Mrs. Roxburgh crinkled her nose in disdain.

"A _castle_?" Larka was getting more floored by the minute.

"Well it would be yours in the books; it's been ruined for centuries. Where did you think the wards for this house came from?"

"All the Families have warded estates," Larka argued.

"Yes, but you couldn't possibly expect _this_ house to be of ancient magic!" Mrs. Roxburgh took over the conversation from her husband.

Larka supposed that the plumbing was far too good for that.

"We the magical kind never hold the titles," Mrs. Roxburgh waved, "It's far too _silly_; but the twenty eight Families are all aristocrats. Lucius Malfoy, for example, is technically the Duke of Albany; Flynn Greengrass is Duke of Burgundy; the Lovegoods forfeited their earldom of Kent. Strange folk," Mrs. Roxburgh mused.

"Your mother has made a study of the British peerage**," Mr. Roxburgh commented.

"You never told me this," she said, her tone not accusatory, but merely stating a fact with some wonder.

Mr. Roxburgh looked at her as if she was saying something ridiculous, "You always ran away to play with boxes whenever I tried."

"Boxes?" she asked incredulously. She knew that she had been a strange child, but…

"You were very fond of boxes when you were a child," Mrs. Roxburgh piped up, "It used to amuse you to no end to crawl inside them." She sighed with nostalgia.

"The point is, all Families have their share of the legacies, you know that; you just never cared for ours."

Well she never had a lover involved with the said legacy either, Larka thought. "So what does our legacy have to do with this ballad?"

"Didn't you read the book?" Mr. Roxburgh waved Remus's timeworn copy in the air, completely unfazed by the delicate condition the spine was in.

"I hadn't gotten that far into it yet," Larka said with a blush.

"The ballad doesn't have half the story anyhow," Mr. Roxburgh said while puffing his chest, "You should have come to me if you wanted to know it."

Larka gave him half a minute's time of silent pride before she indulged him and asked dutifully, "Yes dad, so what is it about?"

"Well," Mr. Roxburgh lifted his voice and adopted a grandiose note, "Once upon a time, oh roughly four centuries ago, a great calamity befell the ancient and noble house of Roxburgh—"

If this was the sort of bedtime story that Sirius underwent every night in his childhood, then it was no wonder that he grew to be a little conceited.

"—despite their best efforts, young Tam Lin grew up to be a very conceited man who was more interested in gathering locks of ladies' hair than he was in maintaining the land. Now, it so happened that one night, he caught a glance of the Queene of Faeries bathing, and the Queene took young Tam Lin to be part of her entourage of young, handsome men—"

"Don't get any ideas now, Larka," Mrs. Roxburgh interrupted with a stern look and Larka felt her face flame up in defiance. "Mum!" she protested.

Mr. Roxburgh went on as if this little episode did not exist. "And though nobody was too fond of Tam Lin, he was still the last heir of the line, and a certain noble lady took it upon herself to save the Fool. Lady Janet was a great witch, although her parentage was disputable, and with wit and sly charm, she collected the four old wizarding relics necessary for her mission—"

"What four relics?" Larka asked, "How did she find them?"

Mr. Roxburgh clucked his tongue and wagged a finger at his daughter. "Patience, dearie, patience has always been your strength, and you will be rewarded for it."

The whole fairy tale thing was getting to her father head, Larka noted, for him to be talking like a fairy godmother, but it was his story.

"Ahem, so," Mr. Roxburgh went on, she summoned the Queene of Faeries on All Hallows' Eve with a dangerous ritual, and with her great Hufflepuff fortitude, saved Tam Lin and the fall of the Roxburgh line. You can find her statue inside our castle, actually. Great witch."

"Everybody was fonder of her than Tam Lin," Mrs. Roxburgh chattered, gossiping about legendary figures as if they were old neighbors, "Flop of a wizard, couldn't do anything but do a foxtrot."

The lesson here, Larka mulled, was that fathers were a better source of unexpected knowledge in crisis than prominent figures of society. She took it all in rather admirably, she thought, for the amount of information dumped on her. "So uh," she cast a hopeful look at her father, "What exactly did she _do_ to save Tam Lin?"

Larka's eyes burned with a ferocity that scared Mr. Roxburgh a little, but he showed his true Hufflepuff colors and stayed his ground. "Uh," he scratched his head, "gathered the relics. Maybe some of the Families still have them as heirlooms. I'm not too sure, maybe Halliwell's House Museum or the Hawick Museum might have something—"

Crack.

"That girl," Mrs. Roxburgh said disapprovingly at the disappearance of her daughter, with a faint undertone of pride at her marvelous skill at Apparation, "She's getting into quite the habit of running out, isn't she?"

Mr. Roxburgh hummed again before picking up the ballad book and continued to read.

* * *

The Hawick museum's collections contained absolutely nothing even remotely significant. The museum contained nothing there but folk exhibits of how Hawick people farmed and the typical war memorial for fallen townsmen. The house wasn't even as large as the Black House. There was a room dedicated to two local lads who had become world renowned motorcycle champions, and Larka took a note of reminder to bring Sirius here. She knew she ought not already think like this—like he was just _away_ and not _dead_—but she couldn't bring herself to care about the brutality of failed hope if this quest did not pan out.

It was, however, a fruitful visit.

The museum proved not helpful, but it was set in a beautiful Victorian park. Larka appreciated the scenery, and after the disappointing stroll through the museum, she scavenged the park for any odd-looking statues. There was a very out-of-proportion fountain, but that was the extent of her discovery. The park had not offered her any additional information.

No, the metaphorical apple fell on Larka's head when she tried to placate herself by ordering a cup of tea at the museum's cafe, monumentally disappointed with the entire place. The barista called out for a cup of Earl Grey, and both Larka and an older woman reached for it, creating a natural conversation starter as both politely excused herself and encouraged the other to go ahead. This general amicability to strangers impressed both, and soon Larka found herself acquainted with a lecturer from the University of Aberdeen.

Ms. Syrithe Pugh was here researching for her first book, hoping that somewhere along the way she would make it to readership and finally tenured professorship. The draft that she showed Larka argued for the presence of Ovid in the text of Spenser—it all flew over Larka's head. Something about Spenser having an anti-Virgilian valuation of faithful love and distrust of imperial rule, and that somehow thematically links to Ovid. Also there was a point about some calendar that Larka didn't understand. It was, however, not until Syrithe started passionately prattling on about the Faerie Queene that Larka started to pay attention. Not the bit about being an allegory for Elizabethan authority, but the part where she said that to defy the Queene of Faeries, the individual suffered through Ovidian trials to attain freedom.

"…the pastoral Mutabilitie Cantos, for example! It presents a challenge to the ideology of power…"

She had not yet touched her tea, too wrapped up in explaining her theory, and Larka had let the tea run cold because a polite listener did not sip tea too quickly. She had no knowledge nor interest in whatever cantos the woman was talking about, but she told herself that she would stay for another ten minutes. Just in case that there was something about how to get to the Queene of Faeries. Maybe she ought to ask? In a purely hypothetically, academic case, of course, not to scare the poor Muggle away.

"…of course _everybody_ is familiar with the Greek myths, but Ovid is unusual in the field epic poetry because his are really _love_ poems…"

Actually, Larka was not familiar with the Greek myths outside the scope of astronomy. She did not see the point: the wizardkind had a far better record of history when it concerned the distant past anyway.

"…take the tales of Echo and Narcissus, Andromeda and Perseus, Apollo and Daphne…"

Somewhere in here, Larka felt, was another breadcrumb that would lead her to Sirius. Those names were familiar, and not in a dead-people-in-Latin kind of familiar. They were all on the Black family tree! Narcissa Malfoy née Black, Andromeda Tonks née Black, and Daphne Greengrass via a very distant Belvina Burke née Black whose daughter married Nott and further daughters eventually made way into the Greengrass family generations later. The relations were very convoluted, but Larka took to flipping through the hefty genealogical books whenever Molly fought Sirius for longer than an hour.

"…and one mustn't forget the tale of Romulus and Remus! Ovid bleeds into the Roman…"

Well Remus wasn't from one of the Sacred and Noble Families, but his line was old and strong, so he ought to be related somehow as well. All old wizarding families were related in one way or another; not much magical blood to spare around really***. Larka had read her mother's maiden name in those books and had to tame the queasiness in her stomach. 'Lupin' probably showed up in the later volumes that she didn't get to before—

"Ovid, is that the author?" Larka interrupted both her thoughts and Syrithe.

Syrithe blinked. One must not blame her for her confusion, for she must have said the name 'Ovid' at least three dozen times now. She slowly said, "Yes, Ovid. The Ovid in Ovidian trials. You know, the four trials that I was talking about."

"_Four_ trials?" Larka asked with unnatural emphasis on the number.

Syrithe impatiently tapped her fingers, "Yes, Echo's reversal of identity on the Green Mantle, Andromeda's binding ritual to the sea rock, Daphne's self-transformation into laurel branches, and Romulus's murder of Remus to obtain the touchstone for the foundation of Rome. It's all in my paper. But the important part of the theory is how close reading shows that the limitations of temperance—"

"_Brilliant_ theory," Larka mumbled as she quickly jotted down the four names.

"Say, you're not going to steal it, are you?" Syrithe narrowed her eyes warily at the pad of paper that suddenly appeared.

"No, no" Larka assured her, "Just going to tell it to my old man; he's an Ovid fanatic. Say, lovely chat, lovely to meet you, got to dash!"

And Larka ran off, discarding a cold cup of tea with a frantically beating heart.

* * *

* The All Hallows' Eve was considered the festival of faeries by the Celtics. One notable recording on this day that no student remembered from Professor Cuthbert Binns's annual lecture was Dante Alighieri's travel through the woods during the All Hallows' Eve. He happened upon a train of travelers clad in green and followed them. When they gathered in a circle to share mead, he tagged along and was wordlessly passed a green saucer. The mead was sweeter than honey and lighter than foam, and he immediately fainted from it. In his unconscious state, he saw much dancing and flames. After he woke up alone, he casually strolled home, only to find that three days and nights have passed. This gave him inspiration to write _The Divine Comedy_.

** Neither Mister nor Missus Roxburgh mentioned that the Blacks were the highest of the British peerage, the claim to the Dukedom of Cornwall ending with the death of Sirius Altair Deneb Black. There was significant controversy in the wizarding word as to whether William Shakespeare was a Squib or not, because one could read some magical history into his plays with some squinting. If one took the Blacks, the Malfoys, the Lovegoods, the Greengrasses, and the Lestranges (Earldom of Gloucester) one could put on a _King Lear_ production. The Naysayers claim that one could technically make any production between the old Families. The controversy lived on.

*** Indeed, Remus John Lupin inherited from his father not only magic, but also a distant relation to the madness of Black. He, however, would deny it to anybody who asked. It was enough that James Potter and Sirius Black were first cousins once removed, and that Larka was also related in some vague consanguinity (Missus Roxburgh's grandfather was brother to Missus Walburga Black's great-grandfather on her mother's side). Remus did not see the point of further muddling the waters. However, the love story of Larentia Black and Roderick John Lupin was one for the ages. It contained all the elements of a sensational penny novel: feuding families, elopement from an arranged marriage, the accidental hand touch, interrupted declarations of love, humiliating and expensive explanation of miscommunication involving a rowboat and a musician, and a much failed attempt at serenading. Needless to say, Larentia was removed from the family tree very quickly.

* * *

Author's Note: Now I want to write Larentia and Roderick's story! Everybody secretly wants to write a cheesy elopement tale.

The rest of the story is a bit, well, convoluted. Let me know if I need to make things clearer...Or if anybody would like some background on Tam Lin/border ballads/Ovid/Spenser whatever else I decide to throw in there...

And remember when I said it will be trippy? Well, be warned, future chapters contain a lot of nonsensical magical realism that really isn't very in tune with the HP canon.

Please review!


	36. Maiden with the Laurel on her Forehead

**Chapter 35**

**The Maiden with the Laurel on her Forehead**

_Book I: In which Cupid's revenge resulted in Apollo pursuing the nymph Daphne, whose father turned her into a laurel tree to preserve her, and Apollo made her into a wreath anyhow._

* * *

As with everything else so far on the journey, Larka obtained her first relic in a very convoluted and somewhat surprising manner.

After much research into the topic of the Four Ovidian Trials*, Larka came to the conclusion that it would not hurt to contact these pillars of the wizarding society, and just ask for them. She did not expect the prestigious members to hand over the relics—if indeed they had them in the first place—without some sort of negotiation, but Larka was determined, and a determined woman was a terrible force.

So she owled Remus, who owled this woman he knew, who owled her close friend Lady Anise Greengrass, who owled her daughter Daphne, who in turn owled Larka an invitation to call upon her at the hour of low tea on the following Thursday.

Come three o'clock the next day, Larka took the train to Swindon. The train ride was two hours long, but Larka secretly liked spending a lot of time on trains. (Sirius liked trains a lot—he wasn't allowed on public transport when he was a kid.) She had a small copy of _Howards End_ that fit wonderfully in her hands, with gilt page borders and an attached bookmark. This was the sort of book that she could never read in her parents' house, with her mother's overbearing aversion to novels—Mrs. Roxburgh called them 'wasted time'. Larka, however, had transformed from her younger days of Proust—which _was_ a waste of time, although a delightful one—into Forster and Turgenev. One might say that middle age taught her to appreciate realism, but Larka never thought about her reading in any grandiose level. She enjoyed reading the gentle nostalgia of an old man letting his words float into the past, just like she was floating towards the Greengrass Estate. (Well, floating on rails, with rhythmic jolts.)

There was an elderly man sitting beside her who looked at her as if he wanted to start conversation, but Larka just timidly shrunk behind her book and lowered her head more whenever he licked his lips to speak. Across was a little girl with a ribbon in her hair and knobby knees in white stockings, who was distractingly verbose, her pitch still juvenilely high. The young man to whom the girl's torrent of words was directed gave such a perfect impression of looking bored, that Larka suspected that he was imitating nonchalance. Amongst the four of them within this compartment, Larka mused, one could see the passing of life.

When the overhead voice announced that they were at Swindon, Larka was internally thankful to be pulled away from her depressing thoughts. She quickly scampered past her companions for the trip, although she did help the old man get his luggage from above his head, and exited the train. She quickly flagged down an empty cabby, and told him: "Hatherop Lane in Fairford, please."

It was a fairly long ride, so Larka learned about the cabby's past as a music composer in Greece. That was almost as interesting a tale as her book, so Larka nodded along until she arrived in Fairford. She made a note to remember this story; she knew that Sirius would have liked it.

The Greengrass Estate was located inside Lea Woods, a stretch of woody land. The winding road leading to the house only showed up to those that the Estate welcomed, and even then it was a tricky path to navigate. The woods would not harm her, but it was still an intimidating task to walk through the shower of brittle branches, each moving out of the way at the very last second, as if reluctantly admitting her and trying to scare her off at the same time. Larka hoped that this was not indicative of the owner's attitude. More than once, Larka had to pause and stare at the ground with a stern look before the petulant path shuffled itself into view again.

When she finally reached the esteemed estate, Larka was only a _little_ awed, and thought herself to have behaved very admirably—the Greengrass Estate was known for being completely and utterly overdone in lavishness, and the former Lady of the House's only pursuit in life was to throw luncheons, soirées, dinner parties, fêtes, balls, galas, and the occasional picnic when she was feeling nonconformist.

The front door swung open when she knocked. Since the house only admitted her if her presence was explicitly condoned by the owner, Larka assumed that it was an invitation to wait inside. These houses were serious business—a bee could not fly overhead without permission.

Larka stepped inside, and sitting squarely in the middle of the room was a young girl-woman, staring straight at Larka.

Thinly arched eyebrows, on the verge of being over-plucked. A small, dainty mouth that was painted red—on a face that was small and dainty as well. She had, however, dark brown hair, and not the trademark golden blondness that was associated with the Greengrass family for so long.—Larka assumed that this was Daphne Greengrass, eldest of the Greengrass children. Daphne's head was adorned by a rather strange bonnet, one that reminded Larka of posters of ladies in the roaring twenties—but Larka supposed the vintage look was what Daphne was going for. At least her kid gloves matched the red of her headgear.

Neither spoke for some time.

Larka was very uncomfortable: should she introduce herself? Excuse her intrusion? But the door was open! Perhaps she should, er, curtsy? But she was the elder, and she was calling up upon Daphne, although really their stations were quite different. Would that make them equals? And wasn't it just a little rude to be staring so much?

"You have a powerful friend," Daphne drawled in a light female mezzo-soprano, "to get my audience."

Larka would hardly call Remus _powerful_. He was a mighty force in battle, but there was something about the man that simply did not intimidate. Of course, others have always argued with her on this point.

"Mother gave word that I must help out in whichever way possible," Daphne continued after a momentary pause, "and Mother is never keen on engaging with outside politics. This is another dark time, and she retreats our family, paranoid of every witch or wizard she knows. But somehow, you drew her out, and had her command me. How Slytherin of you. The Roxburghs had never gathered much influence, so I wonder how you _motivated_ Mother so."

Larka wondered as well. When did Remus begin ties with a family as old, powerful, and carefully politically neutral? He was one of the most active recruiters of the Order, and Larka could not see him going to werewolves before he went to Greengrass, if indeed he held much influence. Oh well, Larka was never one for gossip. She really did not care much for Remus's acquaintances and how they came to be.

"But enough of this chitter chatter," Daphne apparently agreed with Larka's inner thoughts. "You won't find it here."

Larka wished to ask Daphne what exactly was the 'it' that she was seeking, for she herself did not quite know yet. All the intelligence she gathered vaguely referred to some wreath of sorts. Hardly helpful.

"We don't have any relics—well, I doubt you would want that awful throne. Too much gold in one piece of furniture. It's hardly a relic either, just the usual heirloom that some ancestor conjured up."

"Well, I was thinking of something more like … a wreath of laurel flowers of some sort," Larka said slowly.

Her words stilled Daphne, whose smile slipped just a bit before she brought it back on. Daphne gestured to the table beside her, and commanded: "Have tea. Do you prefer Clotted or Devon? Never mind, you probably can't tell the difference," as she poured the first cup.

Only then did Larka notice the glass tea table for four that was set up. Twelve inch napkins were folded into swans at the left of the place setting. There was a center three-tiered curate stand, topped with standing room sized scones that made Larka want to gobble them all up. Tiny strawberry cups populated the middle tier, and the bottom was filled with and mousse pieces and rum balls.

It had been a very long time since Larka had formal tea—in fact, the last time was the graduation exam from Madam P's etiquette class when she was ten years old. She carefully pinched the handle of the teacup and set her pinkie against it. (Despite her involvement with some of the more venerable pureblood Families in her school years—say what one want about the Potters, they were back then among the pillars of society, and let no one doubt the impact of uttering the last name _Black_—Larka had never once found use of afternoon tea etiquette. Sirius was always more of a coffee person. Larka had learned to accept its bitter taste, and later even begun drinking it voluntarily.)

She couldn't remember if she was supposed to fold the tea towards her or away from herself, so she slowed her gestured and watched Daphne, who looped her gloved finger through the teacup and slurped a little. So Larka was forced to inconspicuously stir her tea quickly and lay the spoon down on the saucer.

It did not appear, after some moments, that Daphne was inclined to start talking again, so Larka asked, "Would you happen to know if your family has a wreath somewhere? Or perhaps a ring of flowers?"

Daphne drank her tea in silence.

Larka, mindful of being a good guest, drank hers in silence as well, and waited patiently. Patience was somewhat a specialty of hers.

Then all of a sudden, as Larka was inching her hand towards the garlic parsley scones, Daphne spoke. "I was seven when it began. Can you imagine? A seven year old little girl, who wanted nothing more than to fit in with the rest of her beautifully blond family, discovering that her hair wasn't the biggest problem anymore."

Larka had no idea what she was talking about. She covertly glanced at the family portrait above the fireplace, and saw that Daphne was indeed the only one with brown hair in her entire family. Lady Anise Greengrass had pale, platinum blonde hair that looked almost silver in the lighting, and the girl beside her shared her head of pooled pale blonde. The boy was too small to be judged properly, but even at six years old he was showing the famous saturated gold of Greengrass hair, embodied by the man with his arm around Lady Anise. It was a nice family picture, and just the fact that they _had_ one showed that they were warmer and more loving than the usual pureblood aristocrats. Not in all the infinite rooms of the Black House did Larka ever find a portrait of Sirius's family together.

Larka drew courage from that knowledge—it must have meant that Daphne was more reasonable than the average pureblood, no?

Daphne must have caught her looking at the photo though, for she explained: "Genie has Mémé's famous old gold locks, and Amy has Mother's hair. Amy was always the better person. She started dying her hair brown like mine after she found out that it was a point of agony for me. She'll be Slytherin Head Girl, just you wait."

It took Larka longer than she wanted to admit to figure out that 'Genie' was short for Eugene Aster Greengrass, the little boy who was going to begin school soon, and 'Amy' was a nickname for Astoria Amaryllis Greengrass, who looked like a prettier version of Daphne Laurel Greengrass.

"You should be glad that Amy isn't here, she wouldn't have liked you knowing anything about this family. She also _hates_ being called Amy," said Daphne gleefully.

_Well_, Larka thought, _even warm families had their issues. Tolstoy was definitely wrong._

"But my problems don't begin and end with Amy. No. Apparently, Mother had always known it might happen."

Larka still had no idea what she was talking about, but it felt ominous. The look on Daphne's face, though, she knew well—a proud front that she had seen on Novia's face in their girlhood all too often. It had taken her years of adult life to realize that in youth, she had mistaken Novia's brittleness for strength. But Larka was older—infinitely more wrinkled around the eyes—and wiser now, and could see how easily it would be to snap Daphne in half.

"Haven't you figured it out yet?"

"Figured out your 'problem'?" Larka asked, and secretly thought, _which one?_

"Oh, it's not just _mine_," Daphne snarled with a satisfied glint in her eyes, like the beast that ripped out its own throat to see blood. "If Sirius Black had left you with a daughter, it would be your problem as well."

"It is fortunate then that he didn't," Larka replied politely. She had spent the better part of her youth dealing with hot tempers, and she was too old to get angry at a teenager.

"All the Black girls are different. _Special_," Daphne hissed out.

"How so?" Larka asked, and wondered if it was a trick question—the entire wizarding world knew that the Blacks were special, just like the Muggles knew the Queen of England or the Forbes were special.

"You've seen Narcissa Malfoy's hair, that's half black and half platinum blond? Andromeda Tonks cannot be dragged to a seaside beach if her life was at stake. And of course everybody knows that Bellatrix Lestrange has been mentally insane since fourteen, when she began talking to imaginary people."

Larka blinked. "I assumed that Narcissa dyed her hair that way."

"Yeah, well so does the rest of the moronic world. The older generations are just as bad. It never failed to rain when Dorea Potter was back at the Cottage for more than a week. Ever wonder why the Weasley Burrow is so remote? Cedrella Weasley was a Black, and she sleepwalked every day, setting up tea parties wherever she went. Callidora Longbottom was one of the most normal ones—nothing physically incriminating. But she was mute. By choice. Her voice made things rust, so she refrained from talking. It was a wonder that she found somebody to marry."

Larka wasn't sure if Bellatrix was the only one to suffer from the Black Madness now. "What do you mean her voice made things _rust_?"

"When she talks, everything becomes slow and creaky—if she was a worse person, she would have talked anybody into rusting into a living statue, unable to move until they starved to death. Extremely powerful, but utterly useless in battle. Shame."

Larka frowned, "People can't just _rust_, there's no iron to oxidize, or even chloride!"

Daphne paused, before asking in utter contempt, "How have you been so thoroughly poisoned by the Muggle pseudo magic? Have you forgotten that just because things behave a certain way naturally, it doesn't mean that we can't make them behave another way with magic?"

Larka hung her head in shame.

Daphne looked at her in triumph as she continued: "I would ask if Sirius told you about his mummy's, ah, scent problem, but that would be gauche."

Larka considered it very gauche to rub it in like that as well.

"So I'll just tell you," Daphne went on, "Walburga naturally emits the sweet, cloying smell of decay. The smell attracts decay as well, of course. Can you imagine growing up in a house of rotting flesh, where every floorboard hides weeds that would claw into your skin and eat you from inside out? No wonder Sirius ran away and Regulus got himself killed."

Gauche didn't even begin to cover it.

Daphne gave a laugh at Larka's look. "Don't believe me, do you? Why, do you propose, that their entire mansion fell to ruins so thoroughly and completely, when the wards should have frozen it at the moment its last heir exited its halls?"

A glitch in old wards, that's what, Larka thought. She also resented how Daphne said it 'fell to ruins'—it was still a majestic house, especially after all that cleaning! It just looked dilapidated, but that was a conscious choice by the Order, and Larka could do nothing about it.

"Still the Doubting Thomas**, I see." Daphne raised her right arm and for a moment Larka thought that Daphne was going to strike her, until Daphne's left hand began to unroll her right glove.

It hardly seemed like a good argument, until Daphne reached out to the table and laid her bare hand on the paper swan napkin.

Before Larka's eyes, the napkin shuddered and soon a small tendril of a green plant began to slip out from underneath the swan's wing, unfurling into a small blossom quickly.

Larka thought that she must have looked as dumbfounded as she felt, because Daphne giggled and then laid her hand on the glass surface of the table.

And behold, the glass cracked in the center, and from its translucent core, the same tendril started growing. The longer Daphne kept her hand there, the more the glass started to crack, and the longer and thicker the plant grew, until it was so tall that it could no longer hold its own weight, and collapsed onto the floor.

Larka had no words left in her, so Daphne started talking for her.

"The Blacks is a female line—the magic runs rampant in the female blood far stronger than the males, which is why the Blacks had always married off their daughters quickly. The origin of the family comes from the Faerie Queene herself, it is believed. The first wizard was a Black, and he was the one who brought magic into this world, like Prometheus."

"Black?" Larka asked incredulously, finally finding her tongue.

"We aren't Black but we do have Black blood, from Mother's side of the family. It wasn't much of a problem in their line until Mother. Mother was the luckiest of them all—her curse was just pure power: power to do magic, power in every word she whispered, power in every thought unannounced. Her magic was so well contained in her youth that they feared her to be a Squib. She never used any of her powers, you know; she could have helped to end the first war, who knows—hell, even this one. Instead she just hides in our estate when the war broke out, laying a web over the estate like a bubble of unreality. For her, nothing was more important than keeping the family safe."

Larka couldn't really fault Daphne's mother for that.

"But she passed onto Amy and me the Black blood. Amy … would have been a Squib, had not been her 'ability' to suck magic out of things that she touched. That's where I come in. Me, I bring life to everything I touch. New leaves would sprout from a tree struck by lightning, and flowers will bloom from a sheet of steel. I have to constantly wear these special gloves, because I can't touch anything. In school, I would hold an iron ball in my hand as I sleep, pass it off to Amy so that she can sustain the day."

Well, Larka agreed that it kind of sucked.

"Amy gets to be Prefect because I give her magic. Which is fine. She's always been the ambitious one, not me. She wants lead people as the Head Girl, she wants to glorify the Greengrass name, and she secretly wants Draco Malfoy. The ability to cast spells isn't required for any of that. My sister is the sort of person who always gets what she wants. Which is why I always, always call her Amy."

Larka was sympathetic, she really was. She could see how wrong all of this was, and she could now smell the air around Daphne was like decaying wood, like rich nutrients found in thick soil. They said trees bloomed best when corpses were buried underneath, and Daphne was the corpse-laden earth, and Astoria was the tree that grew out of the earth. It was heartbreaking really, but Larka _really_ just needed that wreath. All Daphne had to do was to _touch_ it, make it, and Larka could provide an easy ear as long as Daphne did that one simple task.

It was just awkward bringing it up. "So would you be able to help out? You wouldn't happen to have a wreath that you could, you know, bring to life for me?"

Daphne thinned her eyes, but waved a hand. She then said, "Bring me a steel wreath and one of the laurel branches from the garden."

Larka was sure that Daphne was not directing her, but there was also nobody in sight. Daphne appeared to be talking to thin air. If Larka did not see the plant grow out of paper and glass, she would have really doubted the sanity of Daphne.

A moment later though, the two items that Daphne asked for floated towards them.

"These are the Invisibles. Ever since the Malfoy's lead house elf betrayed them, Mother dismissed all of our elves and replaced them with conjurations. Yes, Mother is powerful enough to maintain servants for the entire household."

Larka's unspoken question was answered, but she still felt like she was hallucinating.

As Larka was coming to terms with the lesser known magic of the world, however, Daphne had pulled off both her gloves and begun to weave the laurel branch into the wreath. As her fingers moved, more leaves sprouted from the branch, and it grew around the steel wires as if it had a will of its own.

In less than five minutes, the wreath was done. Larka was struck by how easy this was. She really ought to thank Remus.

"Anything else you need?" Daphne asked, not hostile but also not entirely friendly either.

Larka shook her head and thanked the girl-woman profusely.

"Just don't tell Amy any of this, if you ever have the chance to be in her presence."

"Of course," Larka promised, "not a single word to anybody in your family." She could not promise telling no tales to Sirius, who would tell Remus because he gossiped like a teen idol, who might or might not tell his female correspondence, who was after all bosom friends with Lady Anise Greengrass. But not a word from her mouth directly. "But why even tell me all of this?"

"Well if you're going to know _my_ secret, then it's only fair that you know _all_ of ours," Daphne clucked.

"But you didn't need to tell me your ability at all." Larka congratulated herself on not tripping over the word 'ability'. "You could have just made the wreath elsewhere."

Daphne seemed to ponder over this for a second, before shrugging, "You're right, I didn't need to spill everything. That's probably what Mother and Amy would want."

"Which is why you didn't do it," Larka said in understanding.

"I do love her sister," Daphne said, as if she saw this as a challenge to her relationship with Astoria.

"Of course," Larka nodded. There was no doubt about that: how could Daphne not love something that she created herself? But just because she loved her sister did not mean that she didn't hate Astoria as well, if only a little, if only in secret.

Larka never felt more grateful towards her own parents as she took her leave from the Greengrass Estate. Her family was a wholesome one, and when she fell into the arms of her mother, she did not prefer somebody else. When she became the pet of her father, it was not out of some Electra complex, and although her father did collect strange things sometimes, it never took him away from his grounded life. And if she did need objects to instill self-worth, it was a healthy amount. Wasn't there some saying—that only somebody coming from a happy family would know how to build a happy family?

Understanding this, it was only natural that she was saving Sirius, from more harms than just one.

* * *

* As it turned out, the Four Ovidian Trials was a fable that enjoyed a heightened if brief popularity in the late nineteenth century, when the renowned anthropologist Andrew Lang collected a series of seventeenth century ballads concerning the Trials. The _Teal Fairy Book_ (1885) contained three variations of the story, and the _Azure Fairy Book_ (1887) contained two more. Following these two books, a children's nursery rhyme of four stanzas from the sixteenth century reprised, until it too fell into the backwaters of popular culture. By the time the 1920s hit, the Trials again withdrew into obscurity. Larka Janet Roxburgh experienced some difficulty in acquiring the _Teal Fairy Book_ and the _Azure Fairy Book_, as they were underground publications that Lang gave out at the end of his lectures in Merton College. Larka was able to find both in a used book store, old copies of the books where the margins were filled with doodles and mathematical scratch work. The common theme of the Four Ovidian Trials was the intelligent man falling to prey of some force of nature, and the task of saving him falling to the 'noble savage'. The Four Trials usually involved four animals and four relics: a wreath with flowers, a mantle of green material, a chain of blackened iron, and a tablet of touchstone. Otherwise, the tale was dry, the wordings vague, the sentences rambling, and the accompanying pictures incredibly grotesque, as if Lang had, in a fit of mad genius, reincarnated himself as Goya. It was apparent why Lang did not find commercial fame until the publication of his _Blue Fairy Book_, which was illustrated with more conventional aesthetics.

** Doubting Thomas was a figure famous in the wizarding world as well, although it referred to a different Thomas. The one known in the wizarding community was Thomas Didymus Thomas the Second (1571–1610), a Muggle-born wizard who famously refused to believe in magic. Instead, he maintained that he was constantly hallucinating things floating and otherwise behaving not as things should. He attempted to check himself into an insane asylum, but was rejected on grounds of functionality (and that the asylum was full). He turned to painting instead.

* * *

Author's Note: The Tolstoyan lie is not that happy families are not all alike, but that no family can be completely happy. And while indeed, wealth and privilege breeds a certain kind of madness (_Arrested Development_ is not all exaggerations), it is better to be mad and rich than to be mad and poor. I consider the Greengrasses to be a happy, if not perfect, family. The Roxburghs also have their problems-if you take a look at the domestic scenes, and strip away the comic relief, you'll find that not in one place did Mr. Roxburgh directly address Mrs. Roxburgh, not meaningfully.

And uh, The Maiden with the Rose on her Forehead is one screwed-up story: the princess gets pregnant out of wedlock, has a daughter, KILLS daughter because she thought daughter revealed herself to the prince, LOCKS up dead body of daughter in iron chest, gives key to prince, tell him to never open it, and dies. The prince marries, the wife opens the chest, gets jealous and BURNS all her skin. The daughter comes back alive somehow, and the wife uses her as a slave. The daughter later tells her life story to the prince, and prince welcomes her as family. And just at the point where you think, oh my god, finally something good happens, the daughter and the prince then burns all the skin off the wife. They live together, and the prince never married again.

That is just wrong. On more levels than one, and the least of all the is the violence (of which would shame hte Grimm brothers).

Anyway, thought I'd share that story.

As always, _please_ review!


	37. The Girl of the Golden River

**Chapter 36**

**The Girl of the Golden River**

_Book III: In which Narcissus fell in love with his reflection and starved to death by the water, and Echo wasted away in much the same manner._

* * *

Larka fought the urge to fidget with the edge of her sleeve. She was inside Malfoy Manor, and had no clue as to what she was doing. She was let in by the house elf—a very docile if slow creature, much less chatty than her own Twiggy—to an empty room. The house elf bowed and took her leave, not informing Larka of what was expected of her.

So Larka took a slow look around the room and tried not to unravel the blue stitching to her dress.

The house was exquisite, for a lack of better word. It was blatant that each canvas painting, each plush stool, each gilt pillow throw was planned meticulously, and the precision was suffocating. Even the curvature of the stemmed flowers was majestic, let alone the white, polished (and strangely modern) grand piano by the side. Larka felt like she was being condescended by the very air in the room.

It might have been an intimidation tactic, or Narcissa was really just running late, or she forgot about this appointment after all—the last of which unlikely, since Narcissa was the one to reach out and invite Larka to call in the first place. Strange, but Larka was used to these nobilities eerily knowing everything about everything.

Nothing in the entire house seemed remotely appropriate to touch though, so Larka just paced around and admired the pale platinum surfaces gleaming in the soft, colored light streaming in from the mosaic windows. The light made everything look beautiful, even the platinum snakes that scrutinized Larka's every move.

Just as Larka was becoming unbearably unnerved by the decorative snakes—she could _swear_ that their lidless eyes followed her _everywhere_—the elves appeared again, to open the door ceremoniously and let in their mistress.

Narcissa removed her long, formal gloves as she entered the house. (Larka would never see gloves* in the same way again.) The stately Narcissa smiled her stately smile, and apologized in a most amicable manner, "Ah Larka dearest, terribly sorry to keep you waiting—but the board meeting went on so dreadfully, and you know how one must act during those things. Absolute nightmare to attend, but when one's husband is away …"

How could Larka bear even the smallest of grudges against the tardy woman, when she worded it like that? So Larka smiled and forgave her graciously.

"Come," Narcissa took care to press the hand holding her gloves against Larka's forearm in a ladylike display of tender familiarity, "I had ordered for a casual luncheon of cucumber sandwiches before I left. Our chef elf makes the most _delectable_ cucumber sandwiches, you must try one!"

"They sound wonderful," Larka pleasantly went along with the small talk, and allowed herself to be guided by Narcissa into the adjacent room. Larka had indeed worked up an appetite by pacing on the lush carpeted room, and although she preferred meat sandwiches, even she had heard of the famous Malfoy cucumber refreshments.

The next room was just as meticulous designed, with the notable difference of a grand piano sitting in the center. In fact, it was positioned so that Larka could not help but stare at it a little, and admire how the light caressed its smooth, polished surface.

"Lovely piece, isn't it?" Narcissa asked.

"Indeed; I do appreciate a good piano," Larka answered. It was obvious that the answer was yes, for a multitude of reasons, the least of which was that the piano was indeed very lovely (and expensive—but this was one of the rare things that was justified in its price).

"Ah, what true sentiments. I tried a mother's best to interest Draco in some piano—a gentleman cannot be without a mean of musical expression, as you know—but he was decidedly against cutting his broomstick time. Lucius spoils that boy so," Narcissa smiled, her lips taut and stretched to a perfect curve.

Larka had only met Lucius Malfoy twice—once as he was carrying out his Slytherin prefect duties of berating clamor in the hallways and other general Gryffindor behavior (and Novia the party berated), and the other as the stoic and appropriately demure figure at Regulus Black's funeral. She only knew Draco through Harry's words, and from the biased opinion of a teenage boy, it seemed to her that Draco was indeed spoiled, just not by Lucius. So she just kept on her smile.

"Would you like to hear a piece?" Narcissa asked, quite innocently. "I have tried many pianos in my younger days, but I would have to say this Bösendorfer is positively my favorite. It's just _crystalline_ in its clarity, and has a wonderfully brightness to the tone. I have been playing with Liszt's _La Campanella_ to pass the time, and now I sound quite nice. Or perhaps you would like to try it yourself?"

Larka did play the piano a little bit: it was the required pre-Hogwarts education of young lady witches, although she had not played in many years. Still, the part of her that was taught to sit straight-backed with her palms hovering over the ivory keys sang at the sight of the piano. She did not take up Narcissa's suggestion though. There was no point in sitting in front of a piano in the company of a woman who can master Liszt**. It was considerate of Narcissa to offer her the Vienna masterpiece, though.

Larka was genuinely surprised by how, well, _nice_ Narcissa was being. She knew from her early school years that Naricissa was a princess through and through—and princesses did not share their toys with the common people.

"I shall have to pass this time," Larka declined politely, "although I am certain that you sound even lovelier than you professed." She could do the banal society talk too, if need be, it just didn't come quite as naturally to her as it did the regal Narcissa. Nor did she sound half as charming.

Narcissa widened her smile, "I'm sure we will have plenty of time in the future. I have a dream of transcribing Tartini onto the piano. Although when you clean the Black House up, you will find a Fazioli concert grand of no less remarkable craftsmanship in the second drawing room on the second floor. Aunt Walburga was very fond of it; but it's more about projection than anything else, and it is a bit too loud for my taste."

Larka understood what Narcissa was doing now. Although it was not pertinent to her quest, she still felt the need to correct the woman: "Sirius left the House—along with most of his effects—to Harry. Potter," she added, just for clarity's sake.

"Ah," Narcissa grinned like a cat, "but you shall find that no respectable family will recognize that. Come now, you will learn to ease into the role well enough."

"But why?" Larka asked, baffled.

"Because you will bring him back," Narcissa said matter-of-factly.

Now Larka did not see that coming. It was strange, to have the first bit of faith in her quest come from Narcissa Malfoy of all people. It felt … ironic.

"I know what you are trying to do," Narcissa explained, "and while I hold no affection whatsoever for my cousin, it must be said that the Black House cannot fall. There are duties one must attend, by right of birth. Sirius," the faintest of disdain crept into her voice, "never got that."

Larka frowned, "If you're talking about pedigree and blood purity—"

"No," Narcissa said amusedly. "The Blacks of all people understand that purity of blood means the sacrifice of their own daughters. Aunt Walburga was always too smart to believe completely in the Dark Lord. Uncle Orion never cared much for either philosophy—in his opinion everybody else could just drop dead if he had his manuscripts***."

Larka didn't understand. That was the central conflict between Sirius and the rest of his familial world.

"We never asked much of Sirius," Narcissa said, taking on a slightly nostalgic tone, perhaps in addressing one who had departed. "We only asked him to be _political_ about it. The Black female line is sacrificed so that the Black male line could stand vigil over the entire wizarding world. It is our responsibility—we brought magic to this world, and we are its guardians. And to do so, one must remain at the pinnacle of society. Which had meant agreeing with certain philosophies. Sirius was so full in the head—always going about individualistic will and changing the world. Much of good he did. The crown of his accomplishments was just the fear he brought to the Slytherin students during his reign of Hogwarts. He was as much a bully as Lucius was; but more likable, because everybody got lost in the cleverness of him."

That Larka agreed with. "Sirius was a bit harsh at times, but indeed very charming when he wanted to be."

Narcissa laughed, and Larka was surprised to find at how nice a sound it was: not frigid at all, but rather slow and full, the kind that one expected to hear from a mother serving her children a warm meal. "My cousin Sirius was charming even when he did _not_ try or want to be. It comes with some people."

"That is certainly true," Larka chuckled. She wondered why she was always so intimidated by Naricssa in school—Narcissa seemed so genuinely nice, and clear minded! She understood that at some level, Narcissa was playing humility like some people played their humor card, but even that realization couldn't prevent Larka from slowly beginning to _like_ Narcissa, especially not when the woman understood Sirius so well.

"It hardly matters, in any case. His personality is of no consequence to you or I—you love him no matter what his flaws might be, and I simply want my House to persist. You can marry out of the Black name," Narcissa smiled almost resignedly, "but you can never leave the blood behind."

"Well—yes, so that actually brings me to the purpose of my visit," Larka started fidgeting again. "Is there an heirloom or notable item in your possession? A mantle, I think."

"I know what it is that you are searching for. Both Andromeda and I received our heirlooms from Mummy—Mummy had tried to give it to Bellatrix, but I think Bella just threw it away somewhere. I think it was someplace foreign, with roses. In any case, I no longer carry my heirloom as well. It's a mantle made with green fleece from the elusive Lhasa ibex."

"Oh that sounds like it fits the bill!"

"I cannot give it to you, though."

Larka was surprised. "I thought you said you supported my endeavor?"

"I do," Narcissa confirmed. "And furthermore, the Malfoy household supports it."

"Lucius knows?" Larka asked with some horror.

"Don't be alarmed," Narcissa assured her, "Lucius knows his standings, and what is the best course of action—in this case, inaction. Lucius has such a sharp eye for politics," Narcissa said fondly.

"So what would the matter be?"

"The matter is that I no longer am in possession of the mantle."

"Oh." That was … disappointing, especially after all the pep-talk that Narcissa gave.

"I am able to direct you to acquire it, however. It is not exactly the brightest moment of the Malfoy history, which was why I needed to consult my husband on this matter."

The way Narcissa said 'consult' made Larka think of pillow talk and subtle words. She encouraged Narcissa with a nod.

"Are you familiar with the geography of the Bristol Chanel?"

"Somewhat, not entirely," Larka answered honestly.

"I can guide you to Beachley, which is a small peninsula that reaches into the body of water that will become the Bristol Chanel, eventually flowing into the Celtic Sea. Along the Chanel somewhere, you should find … a girl."

"This girl has the mantle?"

"The mantle allows her to be unnoticed—it grants not invisibility, but complete concealment."

"And would she be willing to give me such a powerful relic?"

"You will find her obliging, I think, should you meet her conditions."

Larka nodded: that seemed fair enough. "How will I find her then, if the mantle makes her unnoticeable?"

"The water will be able to tell you. I can say no more."

Why must all quests be enigmatic? Larka sighed. "Thank you for all your help," she said, heartfelt. It hardly mattered _why_ Narcissa was helping out.

"You're most welcome. Just remember our support when you reclaim the Black House. What little sentimentality I can afford is tied up to the childhood inside that House. Those were beautiful years."

It seemed like that even the great Narcissa Black was not immune against nostalgia. Larka wondered what she was nostalgic about—youth?

"I will contact my sister Andromeda for you. Although we did not … part on the best of terms, she should still hold my words to some value."

"Thank you again."

"I have complete faith in you," Narcissa looked into her eyes and said solemnly.

It was nice to hear that, but Larka thought that repeating her thanks would no longer be meaningful, so she settled for a nod.

"You will tell me all about your adventure, afterwards?" Narcissa asked.

"Of course," Larka said easily—it was nice talking to Narcissa. Besides, Larka couldn't see the harm in returning the favor.

And with a soft touch to her elbow, Narcissa Apparated the both of them.

* * *

When Larka recovered from the woozy trip, she found herself standing along a secluded stretch of beach. It was Malfoy property, for as far as the eye could see, although there was not much here. The sand was too gritty and the shoreline too rocky to be a scenic beach retreat, and the water was too shallow for actual fish farming purposes. Larka was not one to ponder on the practical utility of Malfoy properties though.

"I shall leave you to your quest then," Narcissa bid her farewell. "Best of luck; may Merlin assist you."

The sun was already setting in the west, a huge copper sphere on the horizon. It was remarkably similar to a honeydew melon cut in half in her hungry state.

It took Larka quite a while to find the girl, and when she did, she was not sure that it _was_ a girl.

The girl rose out of the waters and Larka nearly stepped on her before she removed her green mantle. The girl's eyes were a pale, pale grey, so pale that at first glance she looked like she didn't have pupils—Larka nearly jerked to flee when she met the girl's eyes. Her hair was also prematurely white, but not a natural white, it had a strange tint to it, a color that Larka couldn't place at first. (A yellowish green often found on drying cattails by the river, at the brink of winter.)

So Larka and the water girl looked and examined each other, until Larka hesitatingly said, "I'm Larka Janet Roxburgh, pleased to meet you." The end of her sentence lilted up, despite her best intentions, as if it was a question.

The girl cocked her head, as if having a hard time understanding her.

Larka tried the greeting again in French.

The girl still didn't show any sign of recognition, but Larka thought that it was because nobody could have really understood her French. Now what was that charm for translation again? But then again, Larka had no idea which language to translate into.

As Larka was desperately trying to remember the extra point question on her March Charms homework in her Sixth Year (it was more frustrating than helpful to know exactly _where_ she learned it but not _what_ she learned), the girl spoke.

Well, she 'spoke' in a loose sense of the action.

The girl opened her mouth and raspy gurgling came out. It was a sound that Larka had heard before, but couldn't remember where. (Maybe she was just getting senile … oh that thought _hurt_.)

When it became apparent to the girl that her attempt to communicate was as ineffective as Larka's, she closed her mouth and was about to slink away into the water again.

Larka, utterly distressed, was miraculously stricken by the sudden memory of the translation charm, and yelled out (louder than necessary), "_agnoscere conlusio_! Er, _conlusionis_? No, no, _agnovi conlusio_!" Dammit, Larka _knew_ this spell, because Sirius taught it to her in her last year. He was mightily proud of all the Auror training that he received, and was disappointed when Larka told him that it was not part of her N.E.W.T.s curriculum.

One of her desperate incantations worked apparently, because quite suddenly the girl's rasping turned into _English_. At the precise moment when Larka understood the girl, Larka also remembered that the gurgling sounded just like a fish on a cutting board flopping and fighting for breath.

"_What do you want from me_," the girl asked.

"Er, hello, I'm Larka, and uh, I would like your mantle." After a moment, she added, "If you don't mind. Please."

"_You can have it after I die_."

Larka blinked, "That's rather morbid."

The girl nodded, "_Morbidity is something you fear, and I anticipate like the coming of a beloved_."

Larka couldn't tell if the girl was being profound or crazy. She didn't seem sarcastic, at least. Deciding that gray morality could be worked with, Larka replied, "Um, okay. So uh, do you have an idea when you are going to die?"

The girl smiled (Larka thought she smiled—it was hard to tell with the girl's pale lips melting into her pale skin) and pointed to the horizon.

The horizon led to the end of the Bristol Chanel, and beyond the horizon was the Celtic Sea. Larka learned the basic geology from Narcissa. "Okay, right. The sea. To the sea?"

"_The sea. I will die by traveling with the river and merging with the sea. I will die by rising to the skies. I will be born again by raining down to the river. I will be born to die again, and die to live my journey._"

That was oddly philosophical. Larka thought that she had read something by some naturalist wizard who said something along those lines. This girl, however, seemed to take it quite _literally_. "Not to rush you, or anything, but uh, so where in your cycle are you?"

"_With each rainfall and with each dry day, I live through a cycle of life._"

"Right, I mean, I got that part. It's just," Larka was embarrassed, but she needed to say this, "I'm bit on a tight schedule here, and I would really appreciate if you could, you know, merge and all that, sooner rather than later."

"_You will have my skin when I achieve my final and first and twelve hundredth death_. _I am close, close to the sea._"

"Oh, so should I just wait for you? Here, I mean?"

"_If you wish_."

"Okay, that's perfect." There was something odd about this exchange, but Larka chose to ignore it.

The girl then returned to the water, but near the beach where Larka could see the foam trailing after her in a tiny, swirling rivulet. Larka walked beside this trail, and they traveled together for a long time, long enough for the silence to settle in between them, gently sleeping like a tired newborn, and long enough for Larka to start doubting her sanity. She was starting to do that more and more frequently now. During the summer right before she started teaching at Hogwarts, Larka had woken up one day to Sirius suffering a panic attack. He couldn't tell if it was all real, or a hallucination that he was conjuring on his deathbed in Azkaban. So naturally, he bit into Larka, to have her confirm his reality with her pain.

Larka could now understand what he was going through.

The sun was rising again, and strangely, Larka was neither hungry nor thirsty. It was as if her bodily needs have subsided, knowing that she was on an important journey.

When dawn enveloped the land and the bird's chatter broke the gentle swishing of water, Larka felt the need for talk. So, as anybody who was questioning their sanity would do, Larka spoke to the air beside her. "So what's your name?"

It was an innocuous question, but the answer the girl gave almost knocked Larka off her feet.

The girl said, "_I have no name. But once I was named Elaine Malfoy._"

Well. It suddenly made sense that the girl had Narcissa's heirloom then, Larka supposed. "Did you always, er, were you always like this?"

"_I was born out of my mother's womb, but I did not want to stay there, where the shadows lay. I am sick of shadows._"

Malfoy Manor was indeed a stifling place, but this seemed rather drastic. "How … what exactly _are_ you?"

"_I am the river. I am the water. I am still Elaine but I choose not to be._"

All these aristocrats were cryptic to a fault, but Elaine here took the cake. "It must have been quite a task leaving your home."

"_Narcissa did not want me to leave. But our curse comes upon me, and she had to let go._"

"Wait, you are … Narcissa's daughter? With Lucius?"

"_If you want to think so, yes_."

"Oh. But you're you know, erm, happy?"

If Larka could see Elaine, she would have seen a beautiful smile that was as human and inhuman as smiles could be. "_I am everywhere and nowhere. I travel the world. There is no question in my life, and I will never be so filled with purpose and meaning as when I am vanishing into the skies, feeling what flesh I have dissembling into a thousand pieces. I become something so large, that you will not understand_."

No matter what Larka asked afterwards, Elaine walked along wordlessly.

When they reached the point where the shores opened up, Larka heard Elaine for the last time.

She said: "_The river sings tirra lirra._" And she disappeared, leaving a green mantle floating in the water.

Larka tread into the river, and when she got hold of the mantle, it was like holding a frog in her hands: the fabric slimy with marsh mud and water, with a mossy looking patch at the nape.

On the way back home, she was momentarily struck by guilt. She had witnessed a suicide and did nothing to prevent it. She had even awaited it with impatience, and asked the girl to hurry along. But Larka supposed that if hell was where she had to go to get Sirius back, then to hell she would journey.

* * *

* In fact, in the twilight of her life, Larka J. Roxburgh would often whimper at the sight of gloves and absolutely refused to be touched by a gloved hand. By the decade of 2060, gloves would be deemed archaic and passé. Unfortunately, young granddaughter Vega Lupin was just discovering the quaintness of bygone ages, and decided that gloves were absolutely essential to a true lady's wardrobe (perhaps in rebellion against the utter wildness of Vega's own mother, Lyra Isolda Lupin née Black). Vega was at the age where she seldom thought of the comforts of other people, so Larka was forced to endure long spells of glove-fearing whenever Vega visited. Fortunately, Vega never visited her grandparents for long, a fact which weighed her down after Grandpapa Sirius A. D. Black's death, as often did the deaths of those who loved one unconditionally. Afterwards, she took to unveiling her hands whenever she visited the now alone Grandmama Larka, but Larka was too gone in her mind by then to notice such a small act of kindness.

** Franz Ritter von Liszt's pieces were generally thought by to be unplayable, and famously quoted that even the simplest pieces required 'four hands'. As a result, it was speculated that he used house elves to aid him in his performance. It was also rumored that Druella Black née Rosier had gotten her old piano teacher, the late Arthur Rubinstein (born Leo Rubinstein), to come teach her three daughters the art, although out of the three, only Andromeda Black was practical enough to learn Chopin from Mister Rubenstein, often regarded as the greatest of all Chopin interpreters. Bellatrix Black learned Tchaikovsky's Opus 39 (his album for children), because even then she could not focus very well. Narcissa Black choose Liszet, of course, due to the widespread belief that his pieces were the hardest, and she had a natural command over scales and arpeggios. She was very proud of her piano hands. In fact, Lucius Malfoy had won over Narcissa in a bout of competitive spirit, in which he reproduced the textural effects of Maurice Ravel's _Ondine_ (from the _Gaspard de la nuit_) beautifully. This particular piece was actually considered to be difficult by musical performers, unlike the exalted _Years of Pilgrimage_ that Narcissa chose. Narcissa was first impressed by his complete understanding of Impressionist music, then entranced as he recited the poem _Ondine_ that the piece was based on, and finally hopelessly blushing when he bowed, took her hand in his, kissed the back like a gentleman, and whispered that nobody could refuse going to the watery depths if it was _she_ who came to the window. It had to be said that although Lucius was a very cold figure, his natural command was over romantics—and which piano player was not prey to that?

*** Orion Arcturus Black's passion in life, if a word such as passion might be used for him, was to recreate the adventure of the fabled wizard Mister Strange. Why anybody would want to conjure a tower of darkness that followed one wherever one went, it was not clear. However, it was clear that this was the noble goal of Orion, who bought every silver basin he could find (which was quite a lot, given the Black wealth and reach, resulting in the infamous Black basin basement). Many misadventures—one is being kind when calling them that—occurred, including misplacement of Orion's left foot toes, a talking broom that was really far too chatty, and a Faerie appearing with wild, silver hair who claimed to be from the realm of Lost Hope. The Faerie gentleman was very hard to get rid of, but Walburga could indeed be very frightening when she set her mind to it.

* * *

Author's Note: If you felt like Narcissa was not being too manipulative, then congratulations to myself, because you have fallen into the same trap as Larka! (Well, that, or I have failed so devastatingly _completely_.) Every sentence she had uttered - including about the cucumber sandwiches, piano pieces, Sirius, and even her coming late - was planned and had a purpose. Well I created a monster that is just so good at knowing what people expect and how to work that. Lucius Malfoy wouldn't have married any less, romantic love or not. But I do think their relationship is sort of loving, right? Going along with the Tolstoy thing last chapter, even the worst families have their happiness. If this deviates from the canon Narcissa's personality, then I apologize, but not really, because by this time you've really got to have figured out that canon isn't a strong concern of mine.

Also, King of the Golden River was this fairy tale that I read when I was little, and was just old enough to understand it and young enough to be really traumatized by it. The imagery is particularly vivid, and the brothers are turned to black _stone_. It might be just my overly active imagination, but at the time I thought they were _aware_ despite of being stone, and so that was freaky.

I changed 'King' to 'Girl', because 'Queen' is too empowering.

Oh I also changed the title to the last chapter, so check out the note at the very end on the eponymous fairy tale...


	38. The Princess on the Glass Mountain

**Chapter 37**

**The Princess on the Glass Mountain**

_Book IV: In which Perseus the hero freed Andromeda, chained to a rock as an offering to the sea monster, killed the monster with Medusa's head, and married her._

* * *

Remus had tried to warn Larka, he did, but Larka came to meet Andromeda Tonks with her guard down. This was due to Larka having a favorable impression of Andromeda, who was also burned off the family tree like Sirius. Sirius had told Larka the details of Andromeda's romance with Theodore Tonks, to the extent of his knowledge, but Larka was suspicious that Sirius took a tad too much artistic liberty.

Andromeda asked Larka to meet her on the hike trail on Cross Fells, a range of mountains near the Tonks Residence in Melmerby. Larka knew that Andromeda did not want to disclose the detailed location of their house, and she was not offended by this show of caution.

The first thing that Andromeda said when they met was: "So word is out that you are 'in' on the secret of the Black line."

Larka tried her best to look curious and puzzled. She failed, understandably, to fool a Black.

"Don't even try the innocent look, girlie."

As nice as it was to be called girlie, Larka still felt a blush tingling on her cheeks. "Daphne Greengrass and Narcissa each told me a little bit."

"Don't worry, we don't care; not that much, anyway. You're in no danger."

"Good to know," Larka said. Next time somebody began to tell her blood secrets, she would be sure to run away fast as she could. But then again, she had endured a long history of listening patiently to Black familial troubles, starting in her Fifth Year. It was practically tradition by now.

"In any case, you know now that every one of the Black girls is marked, in some sort of way. So you must be curious as to what's my particular Faerie defect."

Not really. Larka didn't care as long as she got her relic, but it was apparent that Andromeda wanted somebody to talk to—her daughter Nymphadora probably did not visit often enough, and with the death of her husband Ted Tonks … Oh well, what was another Black secret, in the pile of skeleton bones in the closet that Larka had already collected? "Do tell," she said resignedly.

Andromeda nodded, satisfied, and said: "I can understand the call of seashells. I know their alarmed cries before a storm. It's really not as romantic as it sounds; when red tides strike, my ears bleed from all the anguish that I heard. That's why Ted and I moved to the mountains, facing away from the sea." Andromeda smiled, and for the first time Larka felt like she was talking to a real person, instead of the hologram of one. "Now when the seashells scream for me, their voices echo in the valleys and are lost."

Larka did not think many things as romantic, and this definitely sounded more like a bother than romantics. "I'm sorry," Larka apologized for the Faerie Queene.

"Hm, people do say that," Andromeda replied. "But tell me, why are you so assured that I will be willing to help you?"

Larka blinked. Of all the people, she expected Andromeda to give her the least trouble. Didn't Sirius always say that Dromeda was his favorite cousin, and that they got along grandly—or as grandly as any Black got along with another? Besides, wasn't Remus dating his daughter? And wasn't Ted Tonks in the Order or something? There were so many answers that she could give, all of them ready and plain that Larka thought it must be a trick question. So she just gave a watery "I thought that you would be more reasonable than the blood purity believers."

That was a sort of lie, as Narcissa clearly demonstrated that blood purity was low on the priority list for her, and Daphne said that her family tried hard to stay out of all this. But it was a political answer, and Larka was banking on Andromeda's detachment from her family.

Andromeda, however, was not so easily convinced. "I never liked Remus," she said without warning.

That only came as half a surprise to Larka: of course no mother would be completely happy with her daughter dating a man old enough to be her father. Not to mention that Remus wasn't … the optimal son-in-law option, given his 'furry' problem. (It felt strange to say that in her mind—deemphasizing the severity of the werewolf condition seemed juvenile and useless in hindsight. Sirius coined the phrase though, so Larka faithfully continued to use it.)

"It's not the werewolf thing," Andromeda denied, "that was just a convenient—and logical—excuse. I don't like him because he could never love my little girl enough."

To Larka, 'enough' was just semantics. What did it mean, to love somebody 'enough', anyway? "Remus is a wonderful person," she defended for Sirius.

"But won't be a wonderful husband to my baby," Andromeda countered. "Life has made him timid and reckless at the same time. He won't ever put my Nymphadora first—I can tell from the way he looks at her. She doesn't see that of course; bless her pure little heart, she sees only the brightness that she wants to see. I'm here to protect her, and I wouldn't have her any other way. There's a reason, you know," Andromeda looked at Larka with a heavy glance, "that I left my family."

"I'm sorry that they burned you off," Larka tried to be empathetic without being sympathetic.

Andromeda just waved a hand. "It was as much my choice to leave them as it was theirs to abandon me. There were no hard feelings."

Larka felt like the entire Black family was _all_ crazy, in their own ways. To stop this rampage of insanity, Larka asked briskly—but still politely—"So would you help me?"

"First, tell me, what did you think of my sister Cissy?"

Conversation topic change: classic dodge, but Larka entertained her all the same, "I thought that she was very nice."

Andromeda gave a wide smile, "You like her, don't you?"

"Well, yes," Larka admitted. There was no reason to _not_ like Narcissa, at the very least.

Andromeda chuckled, "Oh how easy you are."

Larka did not take offence to that, despite the blatant provocation. She considered herself to be an affable person, and so she liked the majority of people that she met.

"Narcissa could charm anybody that she set her mind to," Andromeda said, "but not everybody is worth her time."

Larka hardly thought that Narcissa was _trying_ to be charming—but she couldn't be sure.

"Cissy is easily the most beautiful of us—the prettiest of our generation. Even her mark—part of it anyway—is her hair, which is thought to be a sign of nobility despite its irregularity. In the pureblood world, to be thought of being noble is to be noble. She has every right to be big-eyed and narcissistic. But don't for a moment take her for _just_ a pretty wallflower. Cissy is also the most manipulative. Comes with the looks, I suppose. She is the best at all the games that she plays, and when she plays games, she forces you to play it as well, whether or not you want to. I had to go and marry a Muggle* to escape her."

It was clear that Andromeda was sister to Narcissa, Larka thought, they both spoke in such dramatic, unnecessarily cryptic ways.

"Don't take it the wrong way: she obviously deemed you worthy of playing, so she must have a reasonable belief in your success rate. Who am I to argue with the best of our Family?"

That seemed like half a compliment to Larka.

"So as much as I dislike Remus Lupin, I can't turn away your request." Andromeda put a finger to her chin and Larka was very apprehensive at the pensive look on her face. Sirius looked just like that whenever he was seconds away from coming up with some mad and brilliant plan for a prank.

His madness meant something entirely different after this quest.

"I find myself in want of an apotropaic wand**," Andromeda finally decided.

"A what?" Larka asked.

Andromeda tucked a strand of greying black hair behind her ear smugly, "An apotropaic wand. I'll leave the logistics to you. Bring it, and you can have my chain." Then she gave Larka a smile—open and friendly, but safe in the knowledge that she was getting what she wanted.

You could burn the name, Larka mused, but you couldn't burn the conniving in your nature away. Or run away from your violent temper and taste for chaos—although Sirius tried, he really did.

The task of finding the thingamajig was infinitely easier than that of obtaining the mantle, despite Larka having no idea what the thing was, or even knowing the name. By the time that she went to Diagon Alley, she had already forgotten what Andromeda called it.

But as with most things in life, names were only part of the identification. Larka called up Fletcher, whose twitchy, shady underground network told her that Andromeda had been inquiring about illegal cargo of ritual articles stolen from various museums around the world. When Larka went to the British Museum next, she pretended to be an art researcher interested in Egyptian rituals. She found the security guard to be exceptionally knowledgeable. Apparently, as his job was just to wander around, the guard had read and memorized all of the permanent exhibitions, and challenged himself with the temporary ones. Although he had no idea what the artifacts meant in context of archeology or art history, he was a walking, searchable encyclopedia of the place. So when Larka mentioned a 'wand' of some sorts, he immediately perked up and led her to the section of Egyptian adornments from the Middle Kingdom-Second Intermediate.

Larka jolted down the spelling of 'apotropaic' quickly, and loitered around the museum long enough to feign interest, but not long enough to bring suspicion.

Knockturn Alley was her next destination. The place was teeming with the usual unsavory bunch. The place was like an oxymoron—it at once catered the extremely elite, its wares expensive, elusive, and illegal; but it also was built like a meatpacking back alley, with hooded roofs, narrow streets, and little buildings that looked more like anthills than architecture.

Larka never liked this place, and this place didn't like her. It was as if everybody here knew that she didn't belong here. She had only come here once, accompanying Sirius, and ignoring the borderline illegality of his activities like a proper girlfriend. Her policy was 'don't ask, don't tell', so she never figured out exactly why Sirius was in want of a mannequin with a horse head.

In fact, he had obtained the mannequin from the very shop she was heading to.

The moment she stepped inside Borgin and Burkes, the shop owner squinted his eyes and leered. When Larka went up to him, he wove his fingers together and asked, "What can I do for you, Mistress Roxburgh?"

Larka did not care to know how old Mr. Borgin knew her name. "I would like an apotropaic wand, please."

"Ah, a fine choice, most suitable ward for a lady seeking dangerous engagement."

"Pardon?" Did the purebloods have some sort of monthly journal going around, announcing her every move? That was the only explanation she could think of for how _everybody_ knew what she was doing. That, and them sharing a central brain, but that was just a conspiracy theory that this Muggle-born columnist argued for in _The Quibbler_.

Mr. Borgin's leer turned wider, "The restoration of Master Black, no? A most formidable task. I would normally recommend The Coffin Shop down the street for necromancy, but the circumstances of Master Black's demise is most ... curious."

"Right." Larka always had a deep mistrust of The Coffin Shop—she didn't think that ringing a few bells could bring back the dead. If it was that easy, then the world would be crawling with the undead. "So do you have one in stock? The apotropaic wand, I mean."

"We most certainly do—always come Borgin and Burkes for whatever unusual and valuable artifact you might find yourself in need of."

"Well, how much would it be then?" She was not eager to hear the price; Larka was not one of those women who enjoyed the action of dispersing personal wealth.

"May I suggest a trade, for the Mantle of the Green Lady?" Mr. Borgin all but purred.

Larka realized that a corner of the mantle was peeking through her bag, and she quickly stuffed it inside. "No, I'm not trading the mantle."

"I could even give you some store credit for the Mantle—for next time's purchase."

"No." She didn't think she would ever need another purchase. "How much would the wand be?"

"Hm," Borgin seemed very displeased, and only grudgingly gave up trying to wheedle the mantle out of Larka. "Fiften thousand and seventy three."

"_What_? In _galleons_?" Larka asked incredulously.

"When you ask for an ancient artifact, prepare for the matching price. But tell you what, I'll cut the corners, give you the special Black discount. The Blacks have always been a good customer, and I would hope to maintain that relationship in the future."

"Of course," Larka assured him. To hell she would come _here_ again! Fifteen thousand galleons! That was more than her parents' annual income! Sirius and she had lived on _one_ thousand galleons for a whole year back in the day!

"Fourteen thousand, then. In coins, please."

She passed him the compressed coin purse, and let him get to his business of counting the coins carefully one by one, bending over the pile like Felix Grandet, his squared face gleeful in the yellow light reflected off the coins. A man who made his own fortune—like Borgin, like Felix Grandet—would always be more in love with his wealth than a man born into fortune—Sirius, her own Sirius—would be.

"Might I interest you in a perfectly preserved, completely blackened mummified eagle?" Borgins suggested as he finished counting, pointing to the mummified eagle on display in the window of the store. "Every inch is gilded!"

Larka thought that the eagle was very majestic, the gold very tasteful, and the business altogether rather dodgy. She just wanted this apotropaic wand, and definitely not embodiments of Horus.

"No thank you," she declined politely, "just my wand, please."

Borgin was disappointed that the new Mistress Black was not at all as willing to part with money as the old one, but he went to the back to bring her the merchandise.

Larka examined the ware.

The wand was shaped like a boomerang, and looked nothing like a wand. Apparently it was hippopotamus ivory, although Larka could not envisage a hippo coming to the rescue without muffling a giggle. The Egyptian had a funny idea of what a fearsome beast was. The depiction carved on the knife did not help—after a lot of squinting, Larka decided that it was a pregnant hippo bearing a knife. The other depictions were more familiar and traditional in their warding—a serpent, a cat, and a ferocious looking demon figure.

This was really very absurd, and Larka tried to imagine what Mabel would say to all this madness. She realized that she couldn't even remember Mabel's voice all that well, and wondered if she should be alarmed at how she could no longer remember what normality was. She quickly decided that no, she shouldn't be, and instead let the absurdity cascade over her and muddle her life.

True to her word, when Larka returned to Cross Fells, Andromeda immediately handed her a long, rectangular box. Larka lifted the cover of the box to find a blackened chain of iron or some similar metal. When she took it, Andromenda had an air of fond reminisce and winked at her in a manner that made Larka doggedly refrain from thinking what the chain was used for.

And so it was with a steel wreath of unfading laurel flowers, a slimy mantle of ibex fleece that refused to dry, and a blackened chain of doubtful metal, that Larka visited Remus Lupin.

* * *

* The 'Muggle' that Andromeda Tonks née Black was talking about was, obviously, her late husband Theodore Tonks. By 'Muggle', Andromeda really meant 'Muggle-born wizard', but she felt the distinction was minimal at times. Andromeda was by no means a blood supremacist, but she had her of habitual authority. That was all fine though, because Ted had fallen in love not with the girl next door, but the princess down the street. The first time he saw Andromeda, she was with her sisters. He had taken a slow walk to the park, and snuck past the rails that marked private property to sulk near the man-made lake. There, on that hill with the peach tree, was a group of surreally beautiful people. Ted had almost thought that he had chanced upon faeries, but one of the beautiful blonde children took up a cucumber sandwich and ate it. There were three that were especially beautiful, and it was clear from their striking resemblance that they were sisters. They had dark hair and pale skin, standing out like a dark stain against snow. Everything they did seemed so enchanting, so imperial, and Ted wished that he could stop his own breathing, and in old life be able to laugh at this memory of falling in love. While he was transfixed, one of the sisters had climbed down the hill in the same secret manner that he came here by. Suddenly, she commanded him to rub dirt onto the edges of her doll dress, and he did, feeling the fabric yielding under his fingers, caressing his palm. She frowned at him, and he felt a surging wave of intimacy, as if he had loved her before he had known anything, before he was born.

This became his adventure. He would sneak into this park whenever he could find free time, and wait for their appearance. Andromeda—for that was the girl—never told him of a time, but rather let him wait and pine. At one point, she brought him a small flute, and played to him. She was very off-key, but Ted told her he loved it. Soon enough, every shadowy vision of a woman took the faint outlines of Andromeda, and there was something new, something inexplicable flowing in his veins.

One day, she told him that he was eloping with her. He simply nodded and let her take him, because all of the sisters were out of his league, but Andromeda was the one that was attainable. He also loved Andromeda. Neither fact was truer or more important than the other.

** The apotropaic wand was an ancient ward to dispel evil spirits. Though its effectiveness was controversial, it was still highly sought after by many of the wizard folk. Mythical creatures such as the protective uraeus serpents are depicted along the ivory surface. It was unclear what Andromeda Tonks née Black could possibly use this for, although Mundungus Fletcher had intelligence that Andromeda had frequented The Coffin Shop in the previous year. She had stopped going, however, and instead started a lawsuit against that very store, citing false advertising.

The truth of the matter was that Andromeda had bought a set of bells that would awaken the dead, intending to bring back her late husband Theodore Tonks. She ended up finding that necromancy was a fraud (or she was really bad at it), and brought only a grunting corpse that didn't even look like Ted anymore. Dispelling the awakened was harder than waking them, as any mother of a newborn could tell you. Ted, however, decided with what little capacity for decisions he was left with, that living was good; life was good; Andromeda was good. So lingering effects of Ted the Dead was around the house, and Andromeda really did not find any part of this very amusing.

* * *

Author's Note: Andromeda as a failed foil for Larka's own quest. Yes, I really do like my alliteration.

_The Glass Mountai_n is Another fairy tale that scared me as a child: everybody tried to climb the glass mountain to get to the princess and the golden apples on top, but everybody who failed DIED. A lot of people had tried. (What in the world do we tell children?)

As always, please review!


	39. The Old Woman in Red Shoes

**Chapter 38**

**The Old Woman in Red Shoes**

_Book XIV: In which Romulus was deified for bringing together the Romans and the Sabines in the new city of Rome, and Remus was not mentioned._

* * *

She saved the easiest for the last—or at least who she assumed would be the easiest.

This was how Larka envisioned it:

_ Hullo Remus._

_Hullo Larka._

_So, I need this stone that you have._

_You do? Okay, here you go._

_Thanks!_

And it did start out that way, with a pleasant greeting, and smiles on both sides. Remus, however, failed to follow his script. It was not as if he didn't try to be helpful—no, he was ever so sweet as always. It was just that when it came to actually giving her what she wanted, he asked for—well, it progressed like this:

"Hullo Remus," Larka greeted from the doorway, a relaxed smile hanging on her lips. These past few days have been very emotionally—and physically—straining, so Larka was so very grateful to visit an old friend.

"Hullo Larka," Remus smiled back, inviting her into his modest lodging with a friendly gesture and then hugged her briefly.

(The hug was a little weird, not that they haven't hugged before, but because now it felt like there was an empty space between them, a space that was squished.)

In any case, Larka walked in and held back a sigh.

Remus had just returned from a very long trip to Italy, where he was recruiting, as always, for the Order. He had volunteered to go, citing both familiarity with werewolf habits and an immediate confidence based on his own werewolf-ness. Everybody knew that the real reason was domestic troubles, so they let him take on this dangerous task and felt like they did him a favor. Larka did not approve, but she had other matters to busy herself with at the time.

Upon his return, he begun to live in West End again, for some unknown reason—with the Order relocating, it was not like this particular location was convenient, and London property was expensive. Remus was still as impoverished as ever, and his place was quite possibly the worst flat in London. The building was washed in a grayish paint that reminded one of a run-down factory. The stairs reeked of weed. There was the constant, scratchy noise of people trying to make music when they were really bad at it.

It took Larka a while to realize that this was the flat that Sirius lived in for a year, before Uncle Alphard left them the money and they could afford moving out. It was as if the hippies who drummed reggae songs to guitar never left, never aged, never changed. Larka could not tell if they were a new generation, or just the old ones who refused to move from the spot they were standing in for years. Of all the things in life, this building changed the least. It was funny, in humorless sort of way.

She never sold this place, so of course it was still under Sirius's name; a place like this would never check for a tenant's record. She knew that Remus used this space for a while after graduation—always the impoverished scholar—but he also moved out later.

(They both came back, full circle, in a way.)

He saw the passing look of recognition on her face, and so said to her, "I'm just here until things settle down."

Larka did not question that. Instead she sat in the chair woven with rattan—(she tried to not think about that time that Sirius and her had sex in it)—and asked, "Remus, I need a stone."

That came as a surprise to him; he had expected a more complicated request. "A stone? _A_ stone?"

"Oh no," Larka explained, "not just any stone of course. I need a touchstone for gold. Supposedly one of the remnant stones that the original city of Rome was built with."

Remus furrowed his brows in thought. After a while, he walked to the other side of the room, where a few boxes and other equipment lied. "When I was in Rome, I lived with my great aunt for a while. She had certain … ah, habits. She wore red shoes constantly, and was insistent on placing stones and branches at what she called crossroads in the house—under the window sill, by the doorway, stuffed in the chimney, the spot where the light from the kitchen met the light from the hallway. The usual places. They were supposed to be wards and good luck charms."

He pulled out one particular tattered luggage with some effort—it was the same one as when all of them went on that trip to Sirius's family villa in Peschici. She couldn't believe he used the same luggage as his school years—just _how_ hard were the years on him?

"When I left, she emptied this out and filled it to the brim with polished stones. I brought it back like she wanted me to."

He offered no explanation, but Larka knew why: he indulged the old woman because she had lived long years and didn't have many left. "That was nice of you," she said.

He smiled grimly, and Larka understood that she had since then passed away. Larka was sorry that she had to dig this up.

Remus was, however, a toughened soul, and he talked on as if death was not an end. "I never unpacked the case. I'm pretty sure she used to go to the Rome Rose Garden on Aventine Hill to look for these. Maybe you can find what you're looking for in here."

"I don't know how I'm supposed tell if a stone was a foundation for Rome." She got up anyhow and opened the case.

They seemed to be regular stones at first sight—a little dirty, irregular in shape, and varying in size. Upon a closer inspection, Larka could tell that all the stones had faint traces of old magic in them. It was remarkable that the old woman had found so many of these. It must have taken her years—maybe her entire lifetime—to gather all these.

The old woman knew she was dying, Larka realized, and she must have loved Remus. Even old recluses who met Remus for the first time loved him when they saw him, she sighed, whereas poor Sirius couldn't wring a warm smile out of his own parents. Life was fair and unfair in such strange ways.

"I was never close to her," Remus seemed to read her mind. "I think she disapproved of my mother. My father was from an old Welsh line, and my great aunt thought my mum was a social climber. Bit silly, but she was the granddaughter of Larentia Black."

Larka stared at him.

"Oh nearly _every_body has had a Black ancestor at some point. You won't find Larentia Black in the records though, she was blasted off the tree for eloping with a Welsh upstart. My great aunt just thought more of the Black blood than she should have. Made her sprout horns*." He paused. "Literally."

At this point, Larka was beginning to worry about the potential daughters** that she might one day have with Sirius. You know, when she saved his soul and brought him back from the Faerie Queene. It had been done before, so it wasn't like Larka was completely off her rocker. And early forties was a perfectly time for producing babies, Larka told herself. Then again, given how Sirius and Regulus turned out, maybe Larka should be worried about _all_ her potential children***, not just the females. (Was it a little creepy to be thinking about future children with an officially declared dead man?)

More relevantly, this woman obviously gave Remus her stones for a reason.

Again, Remus showed his uncanny ability to tell exactly what people are thinking. "I was just the only one she had left, I think. I know the stones are … special. I just didn't know what to do with them."

Larka sorted through the stones, the tingling of magic prickling her fingers like the soft needles of a newborn cactus. It was hardly an unpleasant feeling, except when she came to a stone shaped like a newborn baby, and upon contact it burned her skin a little, not unlike hot water that was uncomfortable but not harmful. There were all sorts of stones here, it seemed. A momentary wonder struck her: she was dabbling quite a lot in old magic nowadays. There was a quiet, flitting thought about how all her gained and relics might be an advantage when fighting The Dark Lord—the Green Mantle of Concealment sounded like a wonderful addition to any fighting team—but Larka quickly muffled it out. She had to concentrate on saving Sirius. This was not the time to be worrying about the world.

Her gold pin struck one of the stones, and the stone blazed up like a hot coal. Larka dropped it in surprise, but quickly picked it up.

(She struck gold—if her attempt at a pun could be pardoned.)

"Found it," she turned to Remus happily.

Only to find that Remus had a pensive look on his face. It was not a good look—Larka knew from her school years that Remus was less sweet and docile than people thought, and this look often came with a well-worded request that she had trouble refusing.

"We're moving out of 12 Grimmauld next month," he said simply.

Larka noticed how Remus was mindful of making the place sound as impersonal as possible—not a House, not Black, just an address that sounded grim. She wasn't sure if she appreciated that. "Well, you would have to move out at some point," she reasoned.

"Yes, I suppose," Remus conceded. Then, slowly, more cautiously than Remus had ever spoken to Larka (even in the depth of her grieving stages), he asked, "Would you consider coming back?"

"What?" she asked, eyes wide as if bewildered to be even asked this question.

"We could use all the help we can get. And you were good at it—housekeeping and other logistics. You know, a sort of Molly that everybody liked, instead of rebelled against. Everybody … it's been hard, especially after Dumbledore's demise."

_Demise_. Like it was an empire, instead of just one wizard. Larka never was very comfortable with all the worship of Albus Dumbledore. It felt … sad. Sad for him, the man, who would never be remembered as just a man. He would be changed with every word that was said about him, and his individuality would shed off, until only the shining pillar of a legend remained. The dead had no claim over their own lives. But Larka supposed that again, the depersonalization helped those who remained. "It was a tragedy," she said, "but we move past these things."

Remus gave her a look that clearly said, _no, you of all people can't say that._ But instead of calling out her hypocrisy, he just implored, "Please, it's important to the Order."

"No," she said simply, "what do I care about the Order?"

"But you always cared." Then Remus frowned delicately and amended himself, "Sirius always cared."

"Well I will care again after I bring him back," she stated matter-of-factly. Remus was throwing her a look that was faintly disappointed but understanding in a slightly patronizing way—Remus had always been very good with getting people to do things with his look, and it would have crumbled Larka into doing whatever he wanted, if she did not have her resolve.

As it was, Larka just thanked him, smiled, and left with: "Hopefully you will never have to learn to be so selfish****."

* * *

* Great-Aunt Rhea Lupin was an unfortunate case; more so than most of the others. She could hear silence, and despite what the average person thought, silence was quite abrasive. As Rhea grew older, the silence grated against her ears physically, giving her thick calluses that eventually grew to be like horns. She was far removed enough from the Blood line that she turned out to be the only one in her family to show the mark of the Faerie Queene, and therefore nobody knew why she was defected. Instead, they thought her a devil-spawn (for even wizard folk were prone to explain things away with supernatural unknowns). As one could imagine, this did not affect her school years in a positive light. Rhea dropped out of Hogwarts in her first year due to bullying, and was homeschooled by her father, who took up to stronger and stronger pipes as the years worn him down and gave his daughter longer horns. His life ended in an event that was questionably a suicide. However, his insurance money was paid in full, and with this fund Rhea was able to set up a hermit life for herself. Her hut was her life, and her life was more or less the compilation of stones and sticks. Nowadays, we would call her a hoarder, but back then she was just odd. She stayed this way for what seemed like forever; that was, until Remus J. Lupin barged in. Remus had, as he often did both consciously and unconsciously throughout his own life, given Great-Aunt Rhea a sense of belonging and normalcy, for perhaps the first time in her long and dull life. It still was against her hoarding instinct to give Remus her special stones, and despite the foreboding sense of death around the corner, it was very painful to part with her stones—but it was a pleasant sorrow, also the first time she had known that particular feeling.

** Larka J. Roxburgh was justified in her worry. In 2001, when she gave birth to a set of twins, the younger was a girl—Lyra Isolda Black. At the age of five, Lyra began to show signs of swift and volatile temper, although it was not entirely clear if that was the mark of the Faerie Queen or just growing up as the sole daughter of the family. By seven, Lyra would often jump from roof to roof in her feral escape from her mother Larka. At eleven, Lyra joined the Gryffindor Quidditch team, and no other house saw a victory during the years of her education. Mostly because the Gryffindor Seeker Black was the Girl of the Wild Hair who flitted like a falcon from tower to tower at night, howling like a wolf and striking fear into idle students—no other person dared to fly too close to her. Thus Lyra was never taught to curb her temperament. Sirius A. D. Black also largely encouraged this attitude in his daughter, which reared its ugly head when Tristan Jonathan Lupin (a.k.a. Teddy) began to teach DADA at Hogwarts. Lyra saw Teddy for the first time since adolescence, and discovered that Tristan, although being 31 years old, was _utterly_ adorable in his blushing bookishness. She immediately set to seduce her DADA professor, partially spurred on by her ongoing rivalry with Victorie Weasley, who declared that she 'would totally do' Professor Lupin. Needless to say, Lyra's willfulness triumphed over the one-eighth part Veela blood in Victorie. The scandalous affair between Lyra and Professor Lupin was unearthed at her graduation, when she went up to collect her diploma from the Headmistress and proceed to walk up to Professor Lupin and snogged him for approximately eight minutes. Needless to say, Sirius was extremely against this development, as Teddy was fifteen years Lyra's senior (fifteen! _fifteen_!), for despite Sirius's younger years as a rebel, the moment it came to his previous daughter, he was like any other father in the world. In response, Sirius tried frequently and not subtly to play matchmaker for James Sirius Potter (only two years her junior, which was much more acceptable) and Lyra, but really, when was it ever socially acceptable to date somebody named after one's father? Even Larka agreed that their daughter Lyra dating any of the Potter boys felt too much like incest. So, after much Romeo-and-Juliet, Sirius had to bow down before his daughter's petulance (inherited from her father), and gave his blessings (perhaps accompanied by too much 'if-you-dare-to-hurt-her' speech, but Sirius was really on his best behavior).

*** Larka J. Roxburgh was less justified in her worry for her other children: namely, Lyra Isolda Black's elder twin Altair Deneb Black, and their baby son, Robin Cygnus Black.

As it turned out, the eldest Black son, Altair Deneb Black, was perhaps the most responsible Black to have ever been born. From a young age, he took over the care of the Black House from his father (who was completely hopeless when it came to practical matters), and two years later he took over the financial accounting concerns from his mother (who was simply not raised to think large thoughts). By the time puberty came and went, he had founded BlackCrest Capital Management—although he did not tell Mother and Father that he liquidated most of the Black's holdings in the petroleum business (but really, who was into _petroleum_ anymore in the twenty-second century?—the age of the Rockefeller legend was _so_ over) to use as the seed money. Indeed, his parents _never_ found out, and instead thought that BlackCrest was some sort of school club, and cooed over their son looking so _adorable_ all dressed up in a suit like a grown up. Altair bore this well, for despite his name, he did _not_ have a daddy-complex. (Much.) There never was a boy more destined for financial greatness—until he was introduced to Vasilisa Berlioz, the most physically daring and passionate girl that Altair had ever seen in his short life thus far. Vasilisa was a Russian archer who came to England to compete in the Olympics, and Altair left his hedge fund, took over her manager's job, and created an empire for her. Vasilisa would go down in history as Vasilisa the Beautiful, whereas Altair's name would only appear on the family tree, but that was perfectly fine with Altair.

Robin Cygnus Black had a brief romance with the Rose Wealsey in his year, after she broke up with Scorpius Malfoy. This lasted all of two weeks before he provoked Scorpius into a fight, and in turn Scorpius provoked Rosie into the spat of the decade in front of Ollivander's. It ended with Scorpius proposing and Rosie clubbing Scorpius with her bicycle and then crying (literally) 'yes'. Robin collected a total of fifty galleons from Albus Severus Potter for his behind-the-scenes maneuvering. His father Sirius Altair Deneb Black discovered that he had underestimated the wiliness of his youngest son (confounding, since Robin _was_ in Slytherin, a fact that perhaps made Sirius overlook this son on many occasions). Deciding that a penchant for manipulative mischief and very good foresight was more important than the housing, Sirius began to seriously mentor his young son, only to learn that there was not much to teach. This moved Sirius to tears—that his legacy would finally be passed on.

**** As with all jinxes, Remus John Lupin would indeed one day face the same situation. For Larka Janet Roxburgh, there was never a choice to be made: she was clear on where her loyalty lied. For Remus, it was an age-old dilemma between the duty and the heart. Conflicts always made for better stories anyway.

* * *

Author's Note: La la la, shamelessly advertising my other story, _The Faultless Man_ in the last footnote! All the Marauders die, but I'm determined to bring Sirius and Remus back from their rest! If you are a fervent Remus/Tonks fan though, the story's not for you-y'all have already seen this OC in this story. I can't help intertwining the two stories...

Also did anybody pick up that this stone was Bellantrix's relic, and the one she threw away? Narcissa said she threw it somewhere foreign with roses-it was the Rome Rose Garden where Great-Aunt Lupin picked it up!

Anyway, onto the fairy tale. I remember reading _The Red Shoes_ in this Anderson collection that I got in middle school. In the story, an old woman takes care of an orphan and buys her a pair of red shoes. The girl wears the red shoes to church, to a dance party, and puts a loaf of bread in a mud pool so that her shoes don't get dirty. She eventually starts dancing and can't stop. She dances and dances, over hedges and thorns. An angel tells her that she will dance until she dies, and then her bones will dance. She dances to a butcher's house, and asks him to chop her feet off. He does. She can't go back to church, and the angel appeared again and filled her heart with so much joy that it broke, and she died.

So. That just prompted me to check, and in the 41 pairs of shoes that I own, none are red. _Phew_.


	40. Madness in the Waters

**Chapter 39**

**Madness in the Waters**

Her journey began on the windswept vastness of the border region of Scotland. This was the start of her journey because, despite the trials she had already suffered through, they were trivial, domestic trials, so they did not count. Also because one must start somewhere, and the moors were good as any.

It was not easy getting to the town of Selkirk. The town was too small to have a train station or even be in the middle of a bus route, and Larka's driving licence had expired. She could, theoretically, patch it up with a charm and change the date, but she really could not remember most of the rules of the road anymore.

So instead, she hitchhiked.

Never in her entire _life_ had Larka gotten into the vehicle of a stranger, but she had her wand and her resolve. It was a perilous journey in itself. There was a pregnant woman who was convinced that her baby was the devil's spawn, and told Larka to prepare for the raptures when her baby grew to be eighteen. There was a salesman who propositioned her to watch him and his wife have sex in the wide, open field. There was an American professor who had fled his team of assistants to drive across the country and wouldn't stop telling her about some 'economy of scale' and how it fit into explicit general equilibrium models. There was an automobile mechanic who quit his job to go back to his hometown for a reunion with his childhood mates, one of whom he was still mostly in love with.

The last had dropped her off about nine miles from Selkirk, in St. Boswells, where a gypsy fair was going on. One of the women in dreadlocks and too much kohl had tried to pull her into the fortune-telling tent, but Larka did not want to know her future. Larka said goodbye to the mechanic there, and wished him all the luck she could spare.

Larka then walked for four hours that seemed as long as four days. It began to drizzle a little halfway through, but then stopped when enough mud coated the bottom of her trousers to make them weigh half her weight. By the time she could see the faint silhouette of a house on the horizon, her hair was glued to her skin with sweat and leftover rainwater. Upon reaching the border of the town, she closed her eyes, breathed a sigh and immediately regretted it as she choked on floating dust particles.

She checked into the first hotel she could find, a three-storied baby blue building that looked more like a shop than a hotel, next to a limestone veterinary where a few townsfolk gathered and gossiped before.

The locals took her for another Sir Walter Scott fan, coming to seek the remnants of the dead poet and his border ballads. There weren't many Scott fanatics, but the town was so secluded and lacked any sort of attraction, that an outsider with a dog-eared map was immediately understood as a Scott fan. _Another one in search of Tam Lin_, the diner waitress whispered to the bookstore hostess; _Not going to get what she's looking for_, the hostess whispered to the keeper of the Old Mill.

Word traveled far and wide, and had reached every citizen of the small village when Larka slept off her fatigue and came to the pub.

The local pub was not just the local pub: it was the town hall, the community center, the social bar all rolled into one. It was where people got together to be warm and, more often than not, get a beer.

Larka did not have an opinion about beers—most of them were disgusting, but she had grown to accept them, much like she did coffee. Still, she knew that a pint of stout delivered a message, and wary people were much more likely to talk to her over a glass of Dogfish Head's 120 Minute IPA that was far too potent for beer. (Sirius educated her on which beers to get herself, and which were for the people she wanted to make fools of. Sirius had taught her many things, but this was one of the more useful.)

Except the place was positively uninhabitable due to the noxious smoke from paper cigarettes and cigars, suspending heavily under the low ceiling. There were no curtains masking the windows, but the haze inside would prevent any peeping toms, for even inside, Larka could barely discern the figures. Yet out of some unspoken concord, no one reached to unclasp the windows—perhaps they thought fresh air would be hazardous to their health?

Larka forced herself to sit down on one of the empty bar stools, and ordered a Samuel Smith's oatmeal stout and nursed it slowly as she tuned in to the chatter of the pub. (She felt like a secret agent going under cover! Those people sure led incredibly stressful and alcoholic lives.)

There was a small band by the corner, that seemed to not mind the smoke though, for they were playing enthusiastically, if badly. The folk songs they sang were rough and loud, but not loud enough for the lyrics to be discerned above the bubbling cacophony of noise. That, together with the clatter of the bartender, the rattle of the billiard-balls, the heat from the gas, and the loud, coarse jokes of the inmates, which get louder and coarser every ten minutes, all combined to render the place a veritable pandemonium.

At a bit less than halfway into the beer, Larka stopped and turned to her left. There was a man with floppy dark hair and a moustache that grew into a beard. Larka chose him because he had rectangular glasses on, and she was the most comfortable around the scholarly type. He seemed mightily bored, staring ahead past the bartender to either the bottom shelf bottles, or nothingness. (Which counted as something, in the sense that nothingness was an object of focus, stepping outside of the nothingness-ness of it. Larka pulled her thoughts back.) "Lively neighborhood," she remarked to the man.

The man did not respond.

So she tried again, thinking that the thick, dark beard around his chin perhaps blocked his hearing a little, "So you've been here long? I just got to town."

The man turned, gave her a long, hard glance. Larka had never felt more like just a piece of meat hanging off of bones before. If Sirius was here, he would have tackled the man with his bare fists, forgoing his wand in a moment of rage, and Larka would have cast a fugitive spell to help Sirius along. Maybe the Blood Congelation Curse*, the one that made cuts less damaging but bruising more severe, guaranteeing at least a week of painful regret. It was a favorite of Larka's, who at her worst preferred a patient, silent sort of vengeance. Larka was a kind and forgiving person, but that did not mean she did not have fire in her. Sirius always thought that he was a better fighter than he actually was though, because of her subtle help.

The man, thankfully, turned away with just a judgmental sneer, and Larka decided that he was not creating a commotion for. (A simpler Roy Sullivan Spell** that inflicted small doses of misfortune would do.)

Just as Larka muttered the incantation under her breath, she felt a tentative tapping on her right shoulder.

To her right was a young man, the kind of fresh-faced youth that one occasionally saw in seedy bars, introduced there by some fly young man of their acquaintance. This particular youth had a face that was bordering on handsome, but too gaunt to ever fit comfortably under that label. His Adam's apple bobbed conspicuously even without swallowing, and was very distracting.

Larka politely focused her eyes on his face instead of his throat, and asked: "Yes?"

"Don't be bothered with Anderson there," the young man said good-naturedly, "he was born with a dead frown on his face."

Perhaps deceivingly fresh-faced youth, Larka thought as she turned around properly to see him. He had gel in his hair, noticeable even in the poor lighting, and his posture was too relaxed to be a stranger to this pub. Larka corrected her initial impression of the man—here was a youth who had gained familiarity with beer far too early in his life. Such people were usually the gossip mills though, so Larka smiled brightly and repeated her question, "So have _you _been here long? I'm new around these parts and wanted to see if there are any attractions around. You know, _old_ ones."

She did sound like a Sir Walter Scott fanatic, but that was fine.

"All we have is this ramshackle mill—the mayor refuses to tear it down or even repair it, since it draws a few tourists every once in a while. Otherwise, I suppose you could take a walk in the woods, it's kind of scenic. Just be sure not to do it next week though, it's _May Day_."

The way he said 'May Day' was almost theatrically emphatic, so Larka naturally asked: "Why not May Day?"

The youth looked delightfully surprised. "Don't you know? It's the day for the _Arsgang_."

Again, Larka did not know what Arsgang was, but she was humble enough to not be ashamed of asking, "What is the Arsgang?"

"It's the Walk. You take the Walk to see through the fabrics of this world; you see what happens in the next year."

"So how do you do this Walk?"

"Well it can't be done on just any day. The gate only opened on May Day, because that's when the mist is golden. The mist is alive, you know; after all, it's the vapor of water, and water is life. The mist tells you stuff. Green-tinged mist foretells a calm day, suitable for long hikes, and a red-tinged mist warns of ant migration. But when it's May Day, and the gates are open, the Nameless Queen parades her knights."

"The Nameless Queen? Like the Faerie Queene?"

"_Shh_," the youth hushed her, "she has a name, but you can't just say it, she might hear it and come!"

"Oh," Larka nodded in understanding.

"Legend has it that she used to be called Tanaquill, before she became Queene." The youth giggled in a manner that reminded Larka of how her niece Penelope and other young girls gathered around mirrors to play Bloody Mary.

"I see," Larka said, "does anybody still do this Walk? And what's it like?"

He giggled again, "You can't see or be seen by anyone for nine days—the most magical number. And you can't eat anything. Oh you _definitely_ can't see live fire. You leave for the woods at the stroke of midnight, and make your way to the church."

"What church?"

"You'll see it if you're lucky. And don't run into Mylings. Sometimes the Huldra can be helpful, but she's fickle as fickle comes.

"So you've done it before?"

"Of course I've seen it," he seemed offended. "My mama used to lock me up all the time, in a dark room; it was very helpful."

It was either child abuse, or he smoked a lot of grass. Still, Larka asked, "What happened? Did you see her? What about her knights?"

"Before I saw what happened next year, I lived among the stars." His expression turned wistful. "I lived there for many lifetimes it seemed. What do I care for next year? Time has already ended …" As he trailed off, he also walked away.

Before Larka could chase after him to ask what the hell that meant though, a pale woman came up to her and immediately started talking: "I see you've been talking to Batty Marty." The woman, with her wiry hair and eyelids that were far larger than her eyes, fitted the conventional image of battiness more, but Larka was too old and wise to judge based on stereotypes.

Larka made a discrete gesture to the retreating youth. "You mean that boy over there?"

"Yup," the woman nodded, sending her hair bouncing everywhere, "He babbled to you about dead babies?"

"Dead babies?" Larka wasn't sure if she wanted to know.

"_Mylings_, he calls them. It's what the old people used to call babies that were drowned by their mamas because they were out of wedlock."

"Oh," Larka couldn't help her grimace of horror.

"Yeah," the woman seemed half sympathetic to her horror, but also half amused.

"Well, it was … an interesting talk. Can I get you a beer?"

"Red lager," the woman grinned, obtaining what she set out for.

For the rest of the night, Larka drank the rest of her oatmeal stout and made friends with the wild-looking woman—Elsa was her name, Elsa Erskine, the alliteration further making her appear surreal. The stout was more potent than Larka remembered, and she went back to her hotel with a heady warmth to her belly and floating thoughts in her head.

The boy she talked to probably _was _clinically insane—she had no reason to doubt Elsa, despite her being perhaps too fond of beer—but a lot of magic seemed insane. And really, Bellatrix Lestrange was unquestionably insane, but even that turned out to be entirely the Faerie Queene's fault. So who was to say this wasn't related somehow? The theory sounded just crazy enough to be worth a shot.

* * *

* Rather than being composed—as was the case with most of the mischief-related spells the Marauders used—the Blood Congelation Curse was discovered. Remus J. Lupin, in wandering about in the Restricted Section for a special History of Magic paper, chanced upon an old alchemy book. One particular chapter (Ripley, George. "Vision." _Twelve Gates_, 1677. Print.) called for congelation as the sixth step to create the _magnum opus_, the name the alchemic community gave the philosopher's stone. The scroll was in bad condition, however, and listed only a partial spell for the congelation process. Remus was a devote and capable researcher however, and therefore tracked down _The Tragical History of the Life and Death of Doctor Faustus_ (1604), which was referenced in a footnote. Marlowe's play was fictional, but completed with the scroll gave the Marauders a beautifully ancient curse. None of the actual members of the Marauders appreciated the beauty however: James and Sirius did not care for its subtle and slow nuance, Remus did not care for unnecessary suffering, and Peter did not care about complicated incantations. Larka J. Roxburgh, however, took up this curse and never let go.

** The Roy Sullivan Spell was named after Roy Cleveland Sullivan (1912 – 1983), who was hit by lightning seven times. The wizardkind and Muggle-people had different methods of calculating the probability of being struck by lightning, but both agreed that it was near the ballpark of twenty-two septillion to one. Despite being the poster child for keraunopathy, Roy died by suicide over unrequited love, and not any damages sustained from frequent and repeated electrical shock (although the mental stability of Roy was questioned, the general academic consensus was that he was more sane than Cassiopeia Black, the benchmark for insanity, so that made him a sort of alright person).

The namesake spell itself was composed by a sixteen-year-old Sirius A. Black, after he read in _The Quibbler_ (Lovegood. "Human Lightning Rod." _The Quibbler_ Volume 2, June 1976: Print) that the man was chased by a thundercloud after a futile attempt to escape. For the _sixth time_. Sirius was promptly inspired, and did not eat or sleep until he successfully cast the first edition of The Roy Sullivan Spell upon James Charlus Potter's poor owl. (Until this day, even the grandchildren of Joscelind Wadcock the owl refused to fly within a five mile radius of Sirius.) Notwithstanding the utter genius of Sirius (when it came to these types of endeavors, in any case), the spell itself was not terribly effective, and indeed could not bring about thunderclaps. However, it did ensure that the target suffered from damp clothes when drying, slipping hooks when fishing, greater likelihood of tearing holes in robes, towel floating to the ground when showering, and a higher encounter rate of bears.

* * *

Author's Note: Roy Sullivan is a real person, just so you know, who was struck by lightning seven times in his life. Also Marty is a real person (Martin Persson Nilsson), a Swedish mythographer. Looking back, I realize that half of my OC cast are just real people ... so uh, disclaimer?

Question: what genre does this story fit under? It's definitely Romance/[_Something_], but what is that something? Humor? Drama? Adventure? Does it even count as humor?


	41. The Road of Trials

**Chapter 40**

**The Road of Trials**

Some days it seemed that her whole life had been this dark room, and all that Sirius had ever been was a dream.

_Dong._

She had lost track of how many days she had been in here, between the wooden door and the boarded window. There was only one pebble left on her nightstand though, so she felt like that signified something. _Dong._ Although she had no view of the outside, she could see in her blindness the lights at the back of her eyelids. She could see, in the pools of light, the slow walking people, the blueness of the building reflecting in the bookstore windows across the street, the sleepiness that claimed over this entire town. That was where she was, a sleepy town on the borders.

In the distance, she could hear the bell strike.

_Dong._

She could not remember how she had started this strange journey, in her dream, and she could only imagine herself walking through the ensnaring forest of Carterhaugh after this dream. _Dong. _There had been love somewhere along the line; she had fallen in love, had she not? It was hard to tell, in the haze that put her to sleep in the darkness—_dong_—but she could remember bright, black eyes and a laugh that made her heart go a little funny, even if she could barely remember her name.

_Dong._

She thought that she could remember a few beautiful scenes though, a girl and a boy flying across the moon, sprawled out on the summer grass, kissing in gilded halls—_dong_—holding hands down London lanes—but she wasn't sure if it was just the covers of romance novels that she remembered. She didn't know her face anymore, so she couldn't tell if the heroine in the arms of that dark-haired hero was herself.

_Dong. Dong. Dong. Dong. Dong._

She blinked, her lashes heavy in the air, and unexpectedly the vague idea of an answer came to her.

Larka scampered up—for she was Larka Janet Roxburgh—to her feet, and burst out the door with a ferocity that surprised her famished self. She was awake now, and asked whether her sight would return.

It was not until she pushed through her door and stood beyond her door, did she realize that she had kept her eyes closed all this time. It was no wonder then, that she could not discern anything but darkness. Very slowly, she cracked open her eyelids, and saw the faint outline of some light. Was it morning already, she asked herself as she pursued that light.

But no, the light vanished as thoroughly as her world of dreams—it was only someone turning off the lights, preparing for hours of sleep.

Larka made her way down the hallway, down the stairs, and out the door. The floorboard was unfamiliar, so she had to rely on her hands groping the darkness in front of her, and a blind belief that she would not fall. Once outside, she could see the contours of buildings and streets and unlit lampposts. She had to go—it was imperative that she began to go. Larka knew she was forming the thought of going somewhere, but that was about all she knew.

North to northwest, till you see the stars.

Left then left and left and once more.

Walk forth.

Cold.

Moon.

Dark.

Blank.

Fear.

Breathe.

Breath.

Stone.

Step.

Frost.

Forest.

Forest—that was what one called these trees.

And that was how Larka found herself weaving through a tract of woods on the peninsula of land by the meeting of the Ettrick and Yarrow rivers. She made her way through the mass of foliage with the silver moonlight reflecting off the back of fern leaves. And as romantic as that sounded, Larka could not bring herself to care a pin for romanticism as she was trekking through cutting branches and slippery mud.

She wanted to—oh, maybe sit down to have a cup of tea, with warm-toned teacups, on the kitchen table, before sitting with people was not quite such so taxing. She missed those days: the days before she missed drinking tea.

Someday, after all this had ended, she thought, she and Sirius could move to a small cottage, away from the humanity that tried to kill him so regularly. A hamlet, maybe, with fresh faced locals. They could pass the Black House to some house elves to maintain, it would be easy enough. Sirius couldn't even stand the place to begin with, and Larka thought that she should like getting out of London. Maybe Hertfordshire. That was a nice place, where they could settle, and walk along the rest of their life steadily, whole, uninterrupted. Sirius had a romantic streak and secretly liked pastoral scenes. Slow moving cows mooing at the moon, roosters in the morning, and the droplets of white sheep against the rolling grass—they would see that out the window, and not miles and miles of unending hostility.

She tried visualizing the large golden windows with the light shining from them, onto the floors inside. She had to keep herself going.

And then she saw it—a light, a light ahead!

It only took a few more steps, until Larka realized that the light was a woman* ahead, glowing faintly, as if she were made of frosty breath.

Oh dear, Larka thought, she was not supposed to see anybody. So she stepped carefully to the left, and was about to circle away and pretend that she had never seen the woman, when she spoke.

_Stay_, the woman said.

Larka stopped in her tracks, more surprised by hearing a human voice than anything else.

_Stay_, she said_, don't go_.

But Larka did not turn around.

_I can start a fire. I will make a bed for you_, she said, _it is late._

Larka's back was turned resolutely. She had always been good at keeping with her decisions.

_I have half a bottle of whiskey_.

What use did Larka have for liquor, without somebody to share it with?

_I have two eighth of grass._

Larka did not need the high.

_We can give you tea_.

Larka preferred to brew her own, the process soothing and an innate part of her needing the making of tea for others. Sirius liked her making tea for him, and she liked him liking it

_We have a pictures album, of all the children when they were babies._

Now that was a cruel taunt, Larka thought bitterly, and moved forward, a cold hand over her stomach.

_It's alright_, the woman said serenely, _even if you leave, your daughter will come back._

Larka kept her feet sure and her pace even, even as her mind buzzed with a thousand wasps. The woman had started singing, once it was clear that Larka would not look at her, nor stay a second longer. Her voice was soft, like a mother's, and quiet, like she was afraid of waking her child.

_On a gloomy Sunday with a hundred white flowers**,  
I was waiting for you, my dear, that sad Sunday hour.  
The carriage of my dreams returned without you,  
since then all my Sundays withdrew._

The road was darker than it was before, but Larka did her best to not stumble. By focusing on her footing, she could almost prevent her mind from wondering what was in the dark. She could almost convince herself that she was not afraid of the wild ghosts who were able to claw her eyes out, gnaw her feet off, and pull out her heart and gobble it up.

_With tears my only drink, and sorrow my bread,  
on the saddest of Sundays I bled._

No, she did not see fantastic things in the flickering shadows, nor did their shifting startle her. She had always been a very fanciful sort of person, but she tried very hard to keep her mind in check. Instead, she pulled from her drawers of memories those young, reckless walks skirting along the edges of the Forbidden Forest, her palms sweaty inside Sirius's palms, and her legs swinging slightly quicker than his to keep up with his longer stride. Suddenly, the fear felt familiar and almost welcome, and the darkness that filled her eyes was the darkness of his hair.

_Then came a Sunday when you came out,  
a priest, a coffin, a hearse, and a funeral shroud._

Abruptly and without warning, she found in her way a well. Scattered hay and dried mud lined the stone curve of the well. A dampness that belonged to shades lingered here, and the stillness was slightly upsetting. Grass did not grow on the ground near the well, but instead the bare earth was covered in a white powder.

_My eyes could not see one I wanted to love me;  
the earth and the flowers are forever above me._

Fairy rings—these were fairy rings; well, really just chalk-etched ground that prevented weeds growing, but the fanciful name seemed appropriate right now. Scotland was known to have vast amounts of chalk deposits in the soil, and if one but scraped the top layer of earth away, one would often find white powder much like what she saw now.

_The bell tolled for me and the wind whispered, "Never!"  
but you I have loved and in my death I bless you forever._

A few feet from the well, the grass started to be speckled light blue with tiny flowers that seemed fuzzy. Larka could not remember seeing them a moment before, but it seemed unlikely for flowers to be suddenly blossoming in the middle of the night, so she thought she must have been too distracted to notice.

The flowers themselves were familiar—they were borage starflowers, the flower of courage. She grew them in her flowerbed back in Brighton, mostly because it was impossible to get rid of them. Larka plucked one, her fingers tweaking each of its five triangulated points and her thumb rubbing against its bristly stem. She had always thought that the flower of courage should be more magnificent. Also less hairy, maybe.

When Larka inspected the whole of the flowers, she observed that it seemed as if they were a trail leading somewhere, a speckled band of blueness amid the dark grass, creeping into the distance.

The song had stopped, Larka realized, and she could now hear the faint sound of running water. That sound grew louder as she followed the trail, until she came across a river—or a stream, for although it was wide enough for a river, it ran slowly and placidly. Blue starflowers lined the banks, and their aroma rose like incense in the air, curling into her lungs. The slow bubbling of the brook was almost soothing, and the swirling patterns were hypnotizing. She didn't mind having to go on adventure if they led her to places like this.

Perhaps she should cross it—that seemed like what she was expected to do here. It was infallible fairy tale logic. She was about to lift her foot and plant it down at that spot right where the bank sunk in a little, a perfect balancing place for stepping into the water, when she noticed that there was an unusual shadow to her right. She looked up, and couldn't fully stop her scream for she saw a _man standing by her_.

But her voice came out curiously muffled, and though her whole voice was behind it, it came out as a whisper.

"Why hullo there," the sudden-man said amicably, as if it was not a strange situation to be found by a stream at midnight. The man seemed to be, well, an altogether rather _normal_ type of chap: brown hair and features that one expected to see every day, and if his cheekbones were a tad too high, it did not detract from his utter _normalcy_. It seemed as if everyone she met nowadays were crazed some way or another, and she had not been greeted in such an affable, pleasant tone in a long time.

One could never be too wary though, so protesting against a lifetime's habit of politeness, Larka ignored his greeting.

"You might not want to do that," he said, "The water's very fastidious."

It did not look like it, but Larka was a naturally cautious woman, so she took a twig from the ground and gently dropped it into the stream.

The light wood sunk quicker than a struggling camel in quicksand. In the clear swirls of the water, Larka though she saw a small pale hand, a baby's hand, dragging it down.

"Oh," she croaked out, the first syllable she had uttered in many long days.

"An easy mistake," the man went on to say, voice just as chipper, "You're not the first one to make it and certainly not the last one!"

Larka tried not to think of the layer of bones that covered the riverbed. "Thank you," she said finally. There was no point in pretending she had no interaction with another person now, not like with the singing woman, so she might as well be courteous.

When she looked up at him, she found that his eyes were lighter than anybody she had seen and he was smiling just a little too wide to be polite. "What will you do now?" he asked, but there was no curiosity in his voice.

Larka did not know. Batty Marty did not make for a very good tour guide. "Is there," she asked tentatively, "a church nearby?"

"Ah, you seek the church," he chuckled lightly, "It is your choice after all."

Larka looked at him in confusion, as he stepped backwards until he was just before a towering, ancient tree that had a gaping, cavernous hole in the middle, taller than a tall man and fatter than a fat one. Larka was about to warn him about crashing into it when he held a hand to her.

"It's your choice," he repeated, as if it was important, before turning and walking into the great big opening of the tree.

Larka felt slightly afraid of him, this man who spoke and stepped lightly, and she had noticed that in the water, his reflection had a horse's head***.

_Oh what the hell_, she thought in true Sirius fashion, _how wrong can things go?_ "Wait for me," she called out after him and followed him into the tree.

The tree trunk did not end for miles, it seemed. They walked in utter darkness—or at least, Larka thought that it was still 'they'. It was impossible to tell if the horse-man was still ahead of her, but she kept moving forward anyway. The musty smell of decaying bark surrounded her, and it was hard to breathe at times, but Larka relaxed her shoulders and took slow, deep breaths until the heaviness in the air did not bother her as much anymore.

_Dong_.

She thought she could hear the bell toll again, but that was absurd, the little town chapel must be miles and miles away now—oh. She was here looking for a church, wasn't she?

The bell sounded louder, and she could see a group of people approaching.

It was a bizarre sight indeed: a grand dancing trope in fine livery, and the most bizarre thing was that they were all people that she _knew._ Look, there, was that not the boy Severus, now grown up but still as recognizable, with his dark, flat locks and grim gaze? And there, a woman whom Larka almost thought to be Andromeda, until the feral grin gave her away as Bellatrix instead—good, Larka thought fervently, for this was one woman who deserved it. A boy-man with fiery hair that looked remarkably like Arthur Weasley, and Larka was sad for Molly. A woman who had an innocent face despite the weariness, with blue and pink streaked hair and Andromeda's eyes, tripping over herself. A man with no face that Larka could not bear to look straight at. A sweet looking schoolgirl with pink ribbons in her dirty blonde hair and apple cheeks, whom Larka remembered was particularly chatty in her class. A boy who looked like the overweight version of the Crabbe that Larka knew, his eyes dim and his dance steps rigid. And at least five dozen others, all faces that flickered in her memory, in their Sunday best, dancing and dancing. They passed by without so much a glance at her, and all their faces were lined with greyness.

Larka could barely walk forward—it was impossible to see so much death—she couldn't believe that all of them, all of these people were going to die in the following year. There were just so _many_.

She wished she was older, for she felt too young to deal with this. Or maybe not so much older as more experienced, but one did not just simply become _experienced_ with dealing with death or Faerie, did one?

"Well alright," suddenly the man's voice interrupted her brooding, "now sing."

Larka still could not see him, but she replied all the same, "Sing?"

"The Huldra's song. Sing it, and you will find him."

"You know who I'm looking for?" Larka asked in surprise.

"Of course," the man replied smoothly.

She _never_ got free help. "What do you want?" she asked bluntly.

"Give me my baby."

Larka felt the hair prick up at the base of her neck. What baby?

"My baby, you carry it in your pouch."

She had no child in her bag, Larka knew—she carried with her the Laurel Wreath, the Green Mantle, the Blackened Chain, and the Roman Touchstone. She unzipped her bag and bared its contents, not knowing which direction to show it to in the complete darkness. "See, no ba—"

Her bag just became lighter.

"Thank you," the man said, and she could tell he was gone by the sudden lack of the wet salt smell.

She fumbled through her bag, and found that he took the extra stone that Remus gave her for good luck, the one that had burned her a little. She had been carrying around a _dead child_ _all this time_? Merlin help her, but she wanted this _over_.

So she opened her trembling mouth and sang.

* * *

* The Huldra was the Lady of the Forest, in some instances the positive guardian and other the destructive force. Despite frequently presenting herself as a woman, very few have seen the Huldra's real face, and none have lived to speak of it. The reason that the Huldra never showed her true appearance was actually very simple—she had a glum and ugly face. In her younger days, the Huldra had been a hulking, blonde girl whose mother secretly thought that she was a 'broad blank hull of a battleship'. In those days, her ugliness did not bother her; rather, she embraced it and strove for it, seeing it as both assertion of her intellectual superiority and an act against the hyper-domestic life that her mother represented. At the age of forty-five, the Huldra died of a weak heart. It was then that she escaped into the forest, confused and conflicted between a tentative freedom of being able to walk and settling back into her old bitter moods. Centuries of isolation and scared travelers had taught the Huldra a basic shame of her looks, however, so she hid her new vulnerability by luring travelers with promises of food and drink, until they are at the heart of the forest, too deep to escape, where she would either wed or kill the traveler.

** The song was a little known Hungarian verse—it was little known now because it was banned. Composed between the World Wars, legend had it that everybody who heard the music committed suicide. The composer committed suicide, as did the lover who inspired the song. It was said that the song was once played out in loudspeakers along a street, and the passersby started throwing themselves off the bridge, weeping, although this account had never been verified.

*** The Brook Horse was a young fiddler who guarded the spots where children drowned, a horse in water and a man on land. His body grew one more bone for every drowned child, until he is able to crawl out of the waterfront and stand on his hind legs. The Brook Horse was a strangely benevolent creature at times, often taking in the dead Mylings—children drowned by their mothers—and care for them. If a traveler mistakenly took one of the Mylings, which appeared to be stones shaped like a small child to the human eye, the Brook Horse would track down the traveler and fill his lungs with water in his sleep.

* * *

Author's Note: Ooh, that was dark... The humor will come back to the footnotes after this chapter, I promise!

Also, blurghhhk, work begins in two weeks—and that is work as in _real_ work, not half-assed summer internships where I can sneak in late and maybe not have work on Sunday mornings. Well, goodbye, all vacations and Christmas. I'd say lifeissohard, but then I'd sound like Arlene.


	42. The Magic Flight

**Chapter 41**

**The Magic Flight**

"_On a gloomy_—ahem, _Sunday with a_, _a hundred white flowers_, shite, no, okay, _on a gloomy Sunday with_ _a hundred flowers—_white_ flowers_."

Larka had always been truly _dismal_ at singing*. Although singing was believed to be the way to communicate with what the eyes couldn't see, Larka did not think that she was communicating _anything_ with the sounds that she was making. Not to be deterred by a natural lack of talent, Larka kept repeating the verses until she could mostly hear the pitch in her loosely-term 'singing'.

_On a gloomy Sunday with a hundred white flowers, I was waiting for you, my dear, that sad Sunday hour._

At some point, she thought she saw a pale tear in the space in front of her, as if somebody had ripped the fabric of the world, and now light leaked through the cut, and faint, holographic pictures were moving behind it.

_The carriage of my dreams returned without you, since then all my Sundays withdrew._

It was odd, like somebody had stacked those cards that Pan loved so much, a pile of translucent patterns of strangely shaped animals; or it was like looking through a frozen pond at fish that darted here to there in a split second.

_With tears my only drink, and sorrow my bread, on the saddest of Sundays I bled._

All this gave Larka quite a headache.

_Then came a Sunday when you came out, a priest, a coffin, a hearse, and a funeral shroud._

Oh that was a rather morbid verse. She hoped that she wouldn't be seeing any coffins or funeral shrouds any time soon. And really, who used the word 'hearse' anymore?

_My eyes could not see one I wanted to love me; the earth and the flowers are forever above me._

It was actually quite a beautiful night, now that she could pause and see it still, before her eyes. The moon glowed like a light bulb in the watery sky, and the trees branched out to cut it into pieces. The air breathed like liquid against her hoarse throat, and she could feel the magic tingling around her in a rather foamy texture, quite different from what she was expecting.

_The bell tolled for me and the wind whispered, "Never!", but you I have loved and in my death I bless you forever._

By the time Sirius appeared, Larka was beet red in the face and her throat burned like a scorpion stung her in the windpipe. She also had a heightened awareness of how awful she must have looked; there must be enormous shadows beneath her eyes, and her skin was probably a sickly shade that one found in hospital bedsides, and not to mention how battered she was after the long trek. To be fair, Sirius did not look his best either, but Sirius could never be anything but beautiful. Well, except when he just escaped Azkaban, but even then he had a gaunt, tortured look that was at least artistic. Now, his eyes were wilder than she remembered, and his skin thinner and paler, but his hair was still like ink strands seeping through the linen canvas of some aspiring artist.

All this staring and self-inspection must have gotten Sirius nervous, because he cleared his throat and asked, "Are you okay?"

Larka thought that it was ironic that he should be the one to ask that, and then wondered if her usage of 'irony' was technically correct. "Oh, yes, I am," she answered, "Of course, I'm fine, fine, definitely."

"Good," he seemed amused.

"And how are you?" She wanted to smack herself. What was this, small talk with a coworker after a long weekend? "Are you … here? Actually here?" Right, and now she just sounded insane, but she didn't care as she reached out a hand and gingerly touched him.

Real.

Cold, but _real_. REAL.

She breathed out a sigh and it was as if she had stored years' worth of air inside her lungs, and the sigh shackled her entire body and when she at last paused before breathing in again, she could no longer see anything clearly because of all the water in her eyes.

He circled her with his arms, cold but so very solid, and Larka could feel the weight of his head on top of hers. There never was a weight she was more willing to bear, she thought.

"You came," he said, half in smugness and also half in wonder, "I _told_ them that you would come, but none of them believed me."

"Of course," she replied, her voice unnaturally clear, "There are things that I would never believe about you, no matter what, no matter who said them, or why, and being dead is just one of them."

She felt rather than heard his soft puff of laughter, and felt surprised, because Sirius rarely laughed _softly_. She removed herself from his hold, and stared intently in his eyes. "How did you get here," she asked as nonchalantly as she could.

He let out that famous barking laugh now, and said, "Oh my _beautiful_ little birdy, aren't you just the _cleverest_? It's me, it's really me, hell, uh, I fell through the Veil? Before that, I promised that we'd tell the tale of the war of our kingdom, and let's make sure we do that, shall we?"

Larka was beginning to be convinced, but Faerie was a strange, strange thing, and she had endured so much to just be tricked by her sight and willingness to believe that this was indeed Sirius.

"Oh, and," there was a glint in his eyes, and Larka grew suspicious, "you enjoy the Sutra alright, but we always end up in missiona—"

"Ahem," she cleared her throat. Oh, well this was him alright, Larka decided with a furious blush. Hopefully, the horse-man didn't hear _any_ of that. "Well, let's get on with our tale."

"Yes, ma'am!"

"So uh, what should we do here?" Now that Sirius was here, she could let him take over for a bit. Merlin knew she desperately wanted a rest—maybe a small break, or a quick nap, just for a few minutes—

Sirius frowned and interrupted her thoughts, "I'm not quite sure, actually. It's not like this whole thing comes with a manual. But I suppose that we, uh, sort of just get away from here?"

That sounded reasonable, so Larka nodded and followed Sirius, who started animatedly walking. Larka could not discern any path in this patch of woods, yet Sirius seemed confident in his march.

The sight of him braving out a path ahead of her filled her with a peculiar sensation: she felt rising within her such infinite strength. Although branches constantly barred her way, lowered to smack her on the head, scratched her arms, pulled at her clothes, she believed with absolute confidence that she was able to accomplish this herculean task. Indeed, her conviction was so indomitable that even the tangle of wilderness before her seemed but another dot on the map that she scrutinized over not so long ago.

(Was it really not so very long ago? It seemed like years, didn't it? Long, lonely years.)

To amend the toughness of the trail, Sirius passed her a thick branch, and she used it to block other branches, as a shield of sorts. It wasn't very effective, but it gave her upper body something to do, and the focus detracted from being aware of just how _tired_ she was.

Suddenly—

"Black!" a great and terrible voice called, like a hand out of the darkness, clutching around her heart, squeezing it before freezing it. Larka had never heard this voice before, but with an innate knowledge, she knew it was the Faerie Queen.

Silence—

She felt Sirius take her hand and _run_.

All her senses were heightened, but she couldn't see anything in the moving darkness around them. She couldn't see anything but she knew that the Faerie Queene was close behind, hunting them. She knew the Faerie Queen was hunting them so they ran over the grass and through the chilling forest.

She hadn't been held in so long, that the hand that held hers felt foreign, almost intrusive, and for an absolutely terrifying moment, she forgot who the hand belonged to, and tried to shake it off. But Sirius held on fast, and soon Larka could convince herself that it was _Sirius_, and not some terrible monster about to gobble her up. She laced her fingers through his, and was surprised to find the exact callouses that she still knew by heart.

She was calmed by such a small thing, but she had her head now.

The sky ripped open—

"Had I known, Black," the voice said, just behind her, the sound reverberating along her spine, "But had I known, what now this night I see—"

The hand around hers felt funny—it no longer felt like human skin—

"—I would have taken out your two grey eyes, and put in eyes of tree**," the great voice announced with finality.

Sirius was indeed no longer a human. He turned into a lion, snarling and wet, saliva dripping down his mouth. She threw the chain over his mane and looped it around his neck, flinging herself onto its back and hanging on as it ran. He roared and a great pink tongue lolled out, all barbed and bulging, and Larka ignored it. He shook himself and a million fleas sank into her skin, and she ignored it. He threw his back against a tree, and she ignored the flaying pain on her back. She only tightened her hold on the chain, and buried her face in his fur until he ran out of the will to run.

Sirius turned into a raven, a tremendous screech springing from his tiny body, rattling the wind and breaking her eardrums, but she let him. He never stopped his call, long and jagged, determined to wound the forest with its voice alone, and Larka let him. He breathed a foul steam of worm-breath onto her face, and she let him. She only took the mantle and trapped him when he tried to fly away, wrapped the mantle around him, holding on as he fluttered inside, still screeching until he lost his voice.

Sirius turned into an eagle, a bristling creature full of sharp talons and sharp beaks, cutting everything around him, but Larka tended him gently. His claws were a thousand knives against her skin, but she grazed his feathers like afternoon sunshine. His pushed his beak into the soft flesh of her arm, but she barely gave a struggle, only nudging his head and right wing through the opening of the wreath and caught him. He flung her away, but she grabbed tightly the metal wires, never letting go even as he dragged her zigzagging on the path.

Sirius turned into an adder, all teeth and hissing but she was fearless of its fangs. He was a slimy, slick creature, and hissed whenever she got close, but she only got closer. He wrapped his tail around her arm and tried to bite her tender wrist, but she plucked him up by his neck. He tried to slither away, but struck his head with the stone, and he promptly lost consciousness, and so she held a limp adder in her hand.

Well that was anticlimactic, she thought. It was over in the matter of seconds—or was it minutes, or hours? The sky was still dark, so it could not have been very long, in any case. Yet it had taken her months to gather all these relics, now lying useless, scattered behind her.

The adder was once again shifting, and suddenly time and space were all fluid, and they were completely free of both the past and future, because neither existed. This time Sirius turned back into Sirius, who held his head as if it was a source of puzzling pain.

The voice of the Faerie Queene sounded again, although this time she sounded further away—or just more muted. "Please," it simply said, and it was like eternity unrolling itself, or the heaviness of loneliness unfolding.

If Larka was a lesser or a better woman, she might have—well, she might have even felt something for the voice, immeasurable in its existence, and collecting Larka imagined that it—she? it felt wrong giving a gender to a power so great—must have trouble sleeping. Perhaps that was why it collected souls like a child collected toy cars, or a girl her dollhouse. A lack of humanity and an abundance of rejection by humanity, perhaps peeking through the curtains of the Veil to see human in their privacy—even magic could not cure the need for companionship, could it?

But it was time to go.

"It ends as such, Gloriana, so also such is it unto you!" he bellowed out, his voice carrying into the far distance, as he suddenly crushed her into his arms, and broke into a run.

She was not prepared for that, so she stumbled, and so he stumbled, and the both of them, stumbling, fell onto the grass and rolled.

They fell, through years and years.

She fell from desperate energy to detached curiosity of her situation. She fell from curiosity to bored realization. Years and years and years. She fell from realization to stillness. She fell from stillness to stillness.

He fell alone, and she watched him.

He fell from a world without sensation into this world, the earthly world, her world. The palest moonlight was blinding, and the softest breeze cut his skin. The faintest brush of snowflake electrocuted him, and the vaguest thought of Larka made his heart burst. Every still vein was burning, and his entire body was a volcano. He was like a drop of water falling into a furnace; a blade of ice plunged into roaring blue flames; a flicker of dust drawn into a black hole.

She caught him.

Overwhelmed by sensation, he stood still, not daring to breathe even. Until Larka threw herself at him, and he—with great and majestic pose—fainted.

Sirius woke to being crushed in the trembling arms of Larka, the resonance of her laughter coursing through him. Their limbs were as entwined as they physically could, lacing hands and embracing arms. His hand—warm and encompassing, with calluses that ran like violent wild growth across his skin—and her palm—cold and smooth like a flat stone cradled by a singing river for a century—together.

She was still laughing.

It was contagious, and he started laughing as well. They spread out on the grassy earth, laughing, unable to take a breath in without letting two out. Everything was heightened and _funny_ because they could tell that the wound was scabbed, the rift closed, the rip tended—in short, the fabric of space was whole again, and Sirius was on _this_ side of the Veil.

Eventually, Sirius recovered his breath, and he proposed: "Let's go home."

Larka paused in her hysterics, fat tears still rolling down her cheeks, hiccups bubbling up now and then, before beginning to laugh again, as if she could not believe she was alive otherwise. Through her ceaseless laughter that was beginning to scare Sirius, her hilarious hiccupping that turned laughs into strangled shouts, and her feral hair that escaped their binds and flew everywhere—through this, she nodded and nodded, head bobbing up and down.

He kissed her, and she finally stopped laughing.

When they turned to leave the mountains, slowly hiking down the slopes, they held hands, like mother and son, like children in nursery school, like lovers in a clandestine cinq-à-sept, like old couple on the way to the grocery.

And the evening stretched out miles and miles, before them, beyond them.

* * *

* Larka J. Roxburgh had indeed always been dismal at singing. At the young and self-conscious age of seven, Larka had been forced to join a Christmas choir of young children, when Missus Roxburgh took the fancy that her child looked _just_ like a cherub. Poor Larka was so nervous during the performance that she stood straight and tall, locking her knees and cutting off circulation, until she passed out. Ever since then, Larka could not carry the slightest tune, although it was uncertain if this was a natural lack of talent, or just traumatic aftereffect. When Novia Brooks drew her into a school play, she bashfully stood as a tree, tone deaf and occasionally clapping her hands. It certainly did not help her fear of singing that Sirius A. Black was fond of catchy, lewd tunes and often put them as part of his pranks. Larka did not think she would ever discover the joy in music—but in the height of whispering sweet nothings of youth, she once said that the things that she could never sing are for him. And she made Sirius discover, for the first time, the joy in a lack of music.

** The first ever Sirius Black—who also happened to be the first ever Black—grew blind in his later years. The facts surrounding his blinding were not well documented, but the slow process of losing sight began after his trip to the borders of Scotland. Sirius Phineas Black was born into a gypsy family, and often struck up tarot-reading booths when in need of coin, pretending to be a lost king and a seer. This practice took him to the borders of Scotland, where he disappeared for a good many years. He later reappeared, gaunt and paler than any man had right to be, and greatly changed—although Sirius Phineas Black had always been a highly charismatic individual, now there was simply nothing he could not achieve. With dubious means, he made his way up the British social ladder, until he sat with the title of a Lord. There were certain peculiarities to his behavior, and it was not until many, many generations later, when magical history was beginning to be recorded, that people realized that the various feats that Sirius Black accomplished were in fact _magic_. The traceable performance of all magic in those years, in fact, came from Sirius's rather large household of twelve wives and twenty-seven children. But from his reappearance, Sirius had started to experience discomforts in his eyes. Back in those days, maladies were considered indecent conversation, and so Sirius hid his discomfort, until one day he discovered that he had lost all sight. And his wives discovered that his eyes were turned to wood. This history was removed from the official records of the Black history at the hand of Cygnus Nigellus Black, about a hundred years later, who also changed the old family motto of 'toujours le plus pur des gardiens' (always the purest of guardians) to an abbreviated 'toujour pur' (always pure) to fit inside the newly designed crest.

* * *

Author's Note: *drum roll* aaaand the quest ENDS! Epilogue and stuff coming up.


	43. As Every Wise Man's Son Doth Know

**Chapter 42**

**As Every Wise Man's Son Doth Know**

Harry woke to the sound of pots banging and frustrated, breathless yells that were toned quiet. He first thought was Death Eaters, until his sleep-addled brain got through the panic and remembered that they were _gone_. Then he thought perhaps there were burglars, but then realized that no burglar could bypass all the wards that the House of Black collected over generations, rather like a museum collecting fine art. A few more seconds yielded more sounds of banging, and Harry figured that he should investigate the unholy noise and dragged himself out of his room in his usual morning gloom.

The House had turned into an unofficial boarding house of sorts for the Order members—ex-Order members, Harry reminded himself—ever since Sirius's miraculous return. The man wouldn't say much, not even what it was like behind the Veil. Harry himself had too much social tact to ask, but he knew that Ron had, without success—actually, he was pretty sure the last time Sirius had threatened to set Buckbeak on Ron.

But anyway, he had overheard his godfather talking to Remus about it—he hadn't _meant_ to eavesdrop, but sometimes he felt like the very house was built was that specific purpose in mind. It was a bizarre tale, and he thought that Sirius might have had too much to drink that night. Harry was hesitant to believe if only because he knew his godfather had a penchant for embellishing stories. The tale itself was quite outlandish as well, beginning and ending with some mystical journey with him escaping the Faerie Queene's clutch—really, the _Faerie Queene_? What were they, in Chaucer's medieval epic?

In any case, Harry was just glad that he _was_ back—and mostly sane.

As it were, both Harry and Hermione were staying at Grimmauld Place with Sirius. He got here yesterday, and it was just for before they figured out their lives and got their own places. Well, Hermione was waiting for Ron to figure out _his _life, but thankfully Ginny wasn't nearly as organized or demanding.

(He followed the noises downstairs, and found that they came from the kitchen.)

The table was garnished with a dishful of burnt, sooty things that he was hesitant to call pancakes, but held rough, circular shapes, and he knew without a doubt that his godfather had tried to cook again. Well, that accounted for all the banging.

After coming back from the Faerie realm—something Harry, understandably, _still_ had trouble wrapping his head around—Sirius was infinitely livelier. One of the side effects of his good mood was a desire to explore cooking. In fact, the other day he had tried to make this pastry cake thing with almond paste (Sirius had called it some French name that Harry was sure only Hermione knew of), and _that_ turned out to be a bigger disaster than they were prepared for. Sirius was about as good a cook as Buckbeak, and Harry was convinced that Mrs. Weasley had a mild seizure cleaning up.

The change was not unnoticed, and Harry had caught many snippets of conversation from older folk that marveled at how very much like his old self Sirius was again. Harry didn't really know what Sirius was like before Azkaban—the brief memories of the past were hardly enough to get to know a person—but if this was the man, then no wonder even McGonagall had this soft smile whenever she talked about him.

Although Sirius himself was disinclined to talk about the past, people no longer tiptoed around talking about him, and Harry had learned a great deal about the Marauder era of Hogwarts' history. It made for a substantially more interesting story than _Hogwarts: A History_, something that even Hermione conceded. Beyond pranks and memorable parties—there was a St. Patrick's Day one that still brought pain to Podmore's face—there was also mention of Professor Roxburgh, the ex-professor—well, Larka, really, because Harry was old enough to call people by their first names now: he was _eighteen_ and had saved the world for Merlin's sake. And that both she and Sirius insisted.

Nobody remembered more than that she had started dating Sirius all of a sudden, and it surprised everybody, even Larka's own friends. It was funny, in a puzzling way, because even Harry couldn't envision how they even got to know each other; but Harry liked to think of Larka as the sort of person who lived quietly until BAM she did something extraordinary. Like saving people from the Queene of Faeries. Or just saving Sirius in general, sometimes from his cooking endeavors—no less imposing a foe, he would imagine.

(Speaking of Larka, Harry looked up to see her flipping over a pancake on a pan. It broke in half, causing Sirius to laugh until he was lightly cuffed.)

Harry had always suspected that his godfather and Larka had something going on. It wasn't so much a secret as just Sirius had died too quickly for him to find out. To be fair though, even when he was alive, Sirius was careful around the 'kids', since he had tried so very hard to put up the front of the responsible guardian. But Harry could tell—they looked at each other differently, and Larka had this way of calming him down, that even at fifteen and barely understanding romance, Harry knew that this was different.

There was yet any announcement, but Harry had overheard Hagrid talking about breeding a wedding gift* for them. Harry hoped that it was just Hagrid's peculiar choice in diction, and not that the gift actually requiring _breeding_ in advanced; but he had told Hermione and they had set up a date to visit Hagrid just to make sure.

Actually, he didn't have a clue what to get his godfather, come to think of it. The man had it all now, didn't he?

(Feeling happy for Sirius and encouraged by the warm glow, Harry grabbed a pancake with his hand. He bit, chewed, choked, and started looking for some syrup to overpower the abominable taste.)

Remus had summed it up nicely before—well, before he left, before the end, really. He had quoted from some book that: "Sometimes one has suffered so much that he has the right never to be able to say, 'I am too happy.'"**

Harry felt like it described all of them, but especially his godfather, for whom no tragedy could wipe out the entirety of his large personality, and who had suffered through more than anybody could even begin to comprehend. Harry had asked Hermione to find out where the quote came from, but she just scoffed at him and told him to use the internet like a proper human being. She also threw in something about having magic destroyed all his Muggle common sense, which Harry was reluctant to but had to admit. Secretly though, he was sure Hermione was just as touched as he was, because Ron had whined to him how Hermione wouldn't stop talking about this bird inside a _book_, and wanted to name their daughter Rosa. Ron had a point, though, about how his daughter would be mocked mercilessly for being named after Rosa Lee Teabags in Diagon Alley—although it _was_ a pretty name.

It was a little frightening that they were already naming children, though.

Ginny was less into planning the future and more about making the future happen _right now_. She was going to be a professional Quidditch player: she was going to sign with the Holyhead Harpies for two years, and was definitely going to be the breadwinner of the family. That in itself was pressure to get his life on track, but Harry had the excuse of waiting for Kingsley to pass the bill allowing waivers for N.E.W.T. scores to join the Auror department.

Sirius was very supportive in his attempts to get a job, being unemployed himself as well. The concept of employment was received oddly by his godfather, whose only occupation in his brief period of adult freedom had been a soldier in war. Now that war was over—well, he had lost a bit of purpose in life, really.

Harry believed that was why he kept cooking: to bring back some of the chaos and collateral damage.

The House took all this very well though, he had to admit. For something as ominous and unpleasant as it had been when it was headquarters, it sure made a glorious sight when cleaned up—_properly_ cleaned up, not the resentful, half-hearted way that Sirius did it the first time. They had a full staff of house elves again—to the indignation of Hermione, to which Larka responded with a gentle confusion and inquired to why it would upset the girl. All the rooms were shaken free of dust and unsavory residents, the chandeliers were all perpetually lit and golden, the carpets refreshed and plush—with the halls illuminated and all surfaces polished, the house was actually quite beautiful. Of course, it shouldn't have surprised Harry, because Orion and Walburga might be accused of being stuck-up and misguided—or fundamentally evil, as Sirius liked to dramatize—but nobody could say anything about their aesthetic taste.

Speaking of Walburga, Harry was almost certain that he dreamed up this scenario where Larka actually held a _conversation_ with the portrait. Again, he did _not_ mean to eavesdrop, it sort of just _happened_. Their talk was something or other about how to artfully decline unwanted calls from Madam Bulstrode, with whom Walburga always had a frenemy thing going on with. He was convinced this was his mind's fabrication because Walburga Black had actually been civil. But then again, he couldn't tell you why he would dream up a civil Lady Black—oh, right, former Lady Black, if Hagrid was anything to go by. Then again, Walburga _was_ less prone to screaming and slurs against Muggle-borns now. It seemed like even stalled in paint, Walburga had a good sense of the political powers.

That or she finally realized that nobody listened to her.

Anyway, Sirius had been talking about taking up being a Curse Breaker like Bill, but apparently the Arithmancy requirement was too high for him. He also entertained the idea of being an Oblivator for the Ministry, or a Dragon Feeder for Gringotts, but those ideas were as serious as his declaration of becoming a bartender at Prudencia's Pub***. Well, Harry thought Sirius was joking about bartending anyway, but it was sometimes hard to tell with the man.

It didn't look like Sirius would have a real job anytime soon though. Sirius had been headhunted for the Department of Mysteries, but had thrown out the inquisitor. It was actually pretty impressive, although it looked quite painful for the poor messenger—the Black House was really very convenient at times, bending to the will of the Head of House like an eager to please pup.

Larka was quite accommodating actually, and did not pressure him into doing anything. Her reasoning was that it wasn't as if they would be in dire need of money for at least five generations, even if one of them had a bad gambling problem. That was an exaggeration, but only a slight one, as Harry had found out in his days as the heir to the Black fortune. Larka herself had a real job though: she was a resident Astronomer at the Royal Botanic Gardens at Kew, and occasionally was invited to lecture at different universities—but that was solely because she wanted to have something to do, beyond the taxing duties of being Lady Black. To Harry, that in itself seemed more than a fulltime job, but Larka had her mum, who gleefully took up to maintaining the House like it was some exotic plant.

All of this weighed on Sirius more heavily than Larka realized, Harry thought. Sirius had once confided to him that Larka's leniency and unquestioning acceptance made Sirius want to be better for her, and Harry completely understood that sentiment. Even if he was unnerved by being the confidante for his _godfather_—wasn't it supposed to be the other way around?

Ginny had been helpful: she said she would try to hook him up with the Quidditch committee and see if they have an opening for a referee. Harry was surprised that Sirius didn't have some sort of shady Black strings in the committee to pull, but he supposed that being dead/imprisoned for almost two decades would kill most ties****. Also he couldn't conceive Sirius actually calling in favors—Sirius still didn't want anything to do with his parents. It had taken a lot of wheedling on Larka's part to get him to take up his ownership of the House, Harry imagined.

At some point even Sirius Black, Marauder extraordinaire and Peter Pan in the flesh, had to grow up, Harry supposed. A girlfriend just expedited the process.

(Larka had made three pancakes for now, and Sirius had eaten all of them. She gave him a fond if exasperated sigh, but didn't stop him. The sight was heartwarming, but also made Harry yearn for Ginny a little, and Harry found his fingers around the velvet box in his pocket.)

He carried it with him always, and took both solace and motivation from the decision that when he got a job, he was going to propose. Seamus made some joke the other day about him having an Oedipus complex, what with Ginny's flaming hair and lively and independent nature. Sirius had laughed long and loud at that, and Harry gave Seamus the silent treatment for days after that. It hit a little close to home.

Maybe they could look at openings for wedding venues together. It was a little weird to be doing this with his godfather, but he was sure that Hermione had already gotten everything together for the next five years, so there was no sense trying to get Ron into it as well. He just would really like to not do this alone.

His throat was dry at the thought of actually being _married_—exhilarating and bloody _scary_ thought. He might have faced Voldemort on numerous occasions, but he would be lying if he said he wasn't terrified. All men were, he pacified himself. But if domesticity looked like this—like how Sirius and Larka were, this morning, completely at ease and radiating so much that it hurt a little to look at them—then it wasn't bad, was it?

(Harry approached them.)

He wanted to see if he could get a glass of water and maybe a good pancake before Sirius _ate them all_. God you'd think being dead killed one's appetite just a _little_.

Harry was glad that he wasn't the only one dealing with his godfather. He might love the man, but surely it took a saint to be with him always. Sirius was happier now, but that didn't mean he wasn't still difficult. His moods still swung like a teenager's, and when he got angry he could burn the entire city down with just the fury in his eyes. Even when he was in a good mood, sometimes he rambled on about nothing in particular and gave these long speeches in flowery language that nobody understood. Harry was pretty sure that Sirius had aspirations about becoming a poet once he retired. After, you know, he actually got a job to retire _from_.

Saint Larka, her tombstone***** would read. Blimey, he was a bit morbid, wasn't he? But they had all seen enough death that it wasn't ever far from their thoughts. The best they could do was to make jokes out of it.

(Before he got near enough, Sirius moved towards Larka and laid his head at the crook of her neck like it was the most natural thing in the world.)

It was things like this that made the war worth dying for.

(Sirius was sneaking his hands towards the pan in what he must have thought as an inconspicuous manner. When Larka placed her hands commandingly on her hips and playfully swatted Sirius hand away, Sirius made a whimpering sound that was unexpectedly docile coming from the man. Harry stopped in his tracks, too moved by the sight in front of him to disturb it.)

Love made teenagers out of everybody, Harry concluded. Maybe he should just leave them be? God, they made him remember the first time he admitted his feelings to Ginny, and remember the rising first blush of a boyhood crush with Cho, and both memories were sore but so pleasant.

It was nice to see that even years into adult life, everything was still so new and flush—they made him look into the years and years of the future that he had with anticipation now rather than dread. And wasn't that just the biggest compliment that anybody could give?

But really, did the both of them really get through life being so _oblivious_ all the time? He was _right there_.

(The lovebirds still hadn't noticed his presence—that much was certain, because Larka just turned her head towards Sirius, and Harry could see the look on her face, and they were staring at each other with such _intimacy_ and she was smiling in a decidedly _indulgent_ manner, and Sirius was snaking an arm around her back and the pink tip of a tongue could be seen against her ear—

Harry fled before his retinas would be forever burned.)

It was probably time to move out of Grimmauld Place.

* * *

* For the gift items of Larka J. Roxburgh and Sirius A. Black's wedding, see Appendix A.

** Remus J. Lupin was quoting the last line of _The Black Tulip_ by Alexandre Dumas, _père_. Harry had intruded upon him in a state of morose pining, and Remus was really just babbling without thinking about it. Harry though, interpreted it as Remus being sagacious and prophetic as always.

*** As it turned out, Sirius A. Black still did not make the Curse Breaker team, but later became the referee for United Kingdom Quidditch and later International Quidditch as well. He enjoyed a long and relatively stable career, despite allegations of impartiality towards the Falmouth Falcons—but he gave an elegant public speech on how removing the humanity from authoritative judges was actually impeding the impartiality of the judge, by the subconscious surge of repressed opinions. Nobody really understood what he was saying, but tears welled up in their eyes anyhow. This was the one thing that Sirius was really quite good at—talking. Falmouth Falcons won their first World Cup during Sirius's career, but by then nobody cared to dispute his rulings anymore.

Sirius also did a brief stint at Prudencia's Pub, before the start of his public service career, despite the doubts of his godson. Sirius earned a higher than average tip wage, mostly from female patrons. Because female patrons with a generous hand tended to be upwards of sixty, he earned the nickname of Granny-Killer. Understandably, he was not too fond of this nickname, whereas his fellow bartenders were more than fond of calling him by it, overcome with jealousy of Sirius's financial superiority. This reached a breaking point when one of them found out that Sirius was secretly _filthy_ rich—or as Sirius would maintain, _well-off_, since 'rich' was such a bourgeois word. Also understandably, the fellas did not appreciate _that_ opinion either, and the night resulted in a brutal bar fight. Sirius won of course, with perhaps only a little wand-less magic (_minimal_, just to keep the odds even really, since they were younger and one of them went to military school). However, one could also say that he lost, because the consequence was Sirius sleeping in Buckbeak's room for a week, and being fired. Nevertheless, this marked his transition into becoming one of the more recognized faces amongst sports fans worldwide.

Larka Black née Roxburgh liked to joke that she married a waiter and ended up with a celebrity. Sirius liked this joke.

**** There was a surprisingly large pool of people who still honored their favors to the House of Black. The number of those people was not in the least decreased by the new Blacks' connections to the emerging personages in the Ministry—Potter, Weasley, and Granger, among others. Not to mention that, in later days, knowing the Blacks provided some insider knowledge that would be very beneficial in the large, illicit Quidditch gambling pools, and also just the pleasure of being an acquaintance of the Blacks. In fact, a common pickup line in the Quidditch rings was 'You know, I'm drinking buddies with _Sirius Black'_. Of course, this usually turned out to be false, much like the Muggle equivalent of 'You know, I just had lunch with Keith from Rolling Stones'. The relevant fact was that the surname Black reprised once again as a significant player in the new world.

One such favor was needed to appease the Ministry official who was sent to persuade Sirius into joining the Department of Mysteries. It was a rather logical move, actually, considering that _still_ nobody knew what was the Department of Mysteries. Sirius was unreasonably angry and reacted completely out of line to a simple request, and the poor messenger was thrown out by the House itself in a most gruesome manner. Despite that, the case of the Official with the Splinched Leg was settled quietly and quickly.

Lady Black liked to think positively of her husband, so she focused on the practicality of it all, which was that the incident probably deterred potential house thieves.

***** The late Larka Black née Roxburgh's tombstone (1962—2072) read 'Love in a cottage is enough', whereas Sirius A. Black's (1961—2069) read 'The Sun is young only once, but I lived thrice'.

Larka refused to have a funeral for Sirius, saying that she had not let Sirius go alone in life, so damn everybody if she did so in death. So they shared a funeral, when Larka slept into her death as well, three years later, and their headstones were erected together.

Both headstones were commissioned by their granddaughter Adara Black, Head of Department of Mysteries and an off-time poetry critic, most famous for her scathing criticism of her late grandfather's debut collection _Summer Triangle_, calling it 'a romp for a man used to fame and unused to using his mind' and 'choked full of unnecessary words and few actual thoughts'. She was his blatant favorite grandchild, most likely _because_ of her hostile review. Adara received his last piece of work—_The Landscape of Love_—with much more grace, despite the quality of poetry to have improved by only a little.

Adara's eulogy at their joint funeral was going to be on how in the days before she was successful, when she failed in life like no previous Black had ever failed, she ran away from home, unable to stand her overbearingly smart father and impossibly beautiful mother. Grandmother Larka found her, when nobody else could, and had told her that there wasn't much to be found in life, and most of it was pretty bad stuff, but sometimes love in a cottage was enough. However, when she stood up at the podium, Adara could not speak due to being overwhelmed with tears, and so her younger brother Avior Black had to take over. Avior said only one line, and that one line brought tears to all of the attendees' faces; it was: "Here lies two people who found life not once, but many times, and let them continue to do so in their death."

* * *

Author's Note: Appropriately death-themed footnote at the very end. Hopefully the chapter was fluffy and sweet for you! Epilogue and Appendix coming.

In other news, so I just discovered that Amazon has recently opened a service that allows people to post/publish fan fiction, allowing the authors a 35% of the listed price. How do you feel about this new thing?

And c'mon guys, it's the last official chapter, lemme know what you think, ja?


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